Eldritch Asylum
by obsidian-fox
Summary: Crossover: Harry Potter, Lovecraft Shadows in London run deeper than they ever did in Nerima. Ranma begins an epic tale of good, evil, and the vast twilight between them. Summary inside. DEAD
1. Prologue

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

**Started: **September 12, 2004

**Last Update:** March 29, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**Genre:** Supernatural/Drama, Some Action/Adventure

**Classification: **Divergence, Crossover: Ranma ½, Harry Potter, H.P. Lovecraft

**Rating:** PG-13 / T for Teen.

**Matchups/(relation)Ships: **None planned/canonical; definitely not a story focus.

This fiction can be enjoyed with minimal knowledge of Ranma ½ and Harry Potter; every character and place is introduced as though original. However, it may prove _more_ enjoyable if you know the canon, so if you know nothing of these series, simply looking at their main entries in the Wikipedia (www dot wikipedia dot org) will provide the information you need.

No knowledge of H.P. Lovecraft is needed except that he was a famous horror writer. If you get that surreal, creepy feeling... hairs rising on the back of your neck... a need to search the shadows in your closet... that's us striving for that authentic Lovecraftian feel.

_(- CANON -)_

_Ryouga, in his wanderings, once obtained some magic mushrooms that adjust the age of the eater to the height of the mushroom. It wasn't long before both Ranma and Ryouga were stuck in bodies aged only six years. _

_Several times, the neo-children attempted to grow new mushrooms tall enough to restore their proper age. However, each child wanted to be the first to eat the properly aged mushroom; it would relieve themselves of a significant handicap in their fights, and each boy wanted to give the other a rather sound thrashing over the whole incident. Thus, several times, in their raucous rivalry, they destroyed the growing mushrooms. _

_But they were always able to grow more from the spore..._

_(- DIVERGENCE -)_

_...that is until a pair of errant energy blasts from the rambunctious children managed to destroy the remaining fungi and level a fair portion of the Tendo household._

_They were stuck. _

_After providing some aid in repairing the oft-repaired house, Ryouga wandered off in the vain hope of once again stumbling upon the mushrooms. _

_Ranma stayed... for a while. _

_Principle Kuno, when he found out, laughed with glee and quickly used this wonderful excuse to expel Ranma, suggesting that the no-longer-juvenile delinquent enroll at the local elementary school. Nodoka was kept ignorant – a six-year-old child that turns into a girl with a splash of water hardly qualifies as a man among men. Ranma tried all the normal venues for aid, of course, but none worked: Tofu hadn't a clue where to start. Happosai refused to help on general principles, and Cologne was sore that Ranma hadn't given her one of these magic mushrooms and offered her help only on the condition that he promise to marry Shampoo. _

_Ranma refused. _

_Thus he remained a child._

_After much deliberation, the Tendo-Saotome wedding was officially put on hold until Ranma's age could be restored or until he once again comes of age. For a few weeks, Ranma remained with his father at the Tendo home. But one night, secretly appalled with the possibility of the Saotomes freeloading for another ten years, Kasumi offered young Ranma an unusual suggestion: _Find or learn the magic needed to regain your life_. One night, Ranma set out on a quest to do exactly that._

_And he found magic._

_However, something went dreadfully, terribly wrong._

_Years later, Ranma is recovering in the least expected of places... an asylum, far from the place he once called home._

_And that is where the story begins. _

**Prologue**

O, hark! What mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks. He comes. I see his glaring eyes. Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes. Help! Help! He's gone! O fearful woe, such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain, I know, I know I am not mad but soon shall be.

– Mathew Gregory Lewis

August 1991

-oOo-

White. White. Blurry, formless, darkness of light. It smothers her, comforts her, and holds her tight. But where? WHERE? She searches in vain the depths of her brain and finds only one word: Beware! Madness this way lies. Do not follow for thou art insane. Answers not meant for mortal eyes are locked away, blocked away. Sanity is your new disguise; seek your freedom from chains.

"Join us, join us, become the darkness in the day, become our god who shows the way. Become the gate. Become the key. Become the one who sets us free," the voices whisper from the walls; voices echo from the halls.

"Who art thou? Leave me be, shadows that I cannot see. I'll seal you, heal you; I shall steal from you my sanity. Freedom is not meant for those whom only the darkness knows," the girl answers in a fright, seeking asylum in the light.

Shifting shadows form and rise along the walls they twist and writhe.

"Who are we? We are your fears. We are your pain. We are darkness and profane. We kill your hopes. We haunt your dreams. In the night we cause your screams. We're sealed by light, we're sealed by day, and we want somewhere to stay. You have the power to make it so; you have the power to help us grow. Who are you whom speaks from the light? Why can you complete the rite?"

"Who am I? I do not know. But I shall not help you, so: Begone! Begone! Begone!"

They wriggle and writhe and slither away like shadows caught without a home by noon sunlight in the day to the darkness where they roam.

-oOo-

Three burly orderlies, dressed in white, sit at a small round table playing cards and drinking some positively awful coffee.

"Blegh! This shit tastes like crap," says one of the orderlies, before guzzling his mug with one enormous gulp.

"Give it up, Willems. You say the same thing every day, yet you're still drinking it by the liter."

Willems makes a face. "It's still bloody awful."

"Frankly, I can't see how you two stand it. Just bring some of your own teabags; the coffee maker makes perfectly good hot water."

"I'm starting to agree with you, Smith. Two's?"

"Go fish, Dickson," replies Smith.

Dickson draws a card from a central pile. "Ha! A match." He lays down a pair of twos. "I win again, guys."

Smith and Willems groan as Dickson grabs a pile of cash from the table and pockets it.

Willems looks at a large clock on a nearby wall. "Ah, bloody hell. It's that time again."

"Time to do our job, you mean?" asks Smith, raising an eyebrow. "Who's got Red today?"

Willems waves his hands in front of him defensively. "I had to deal with that bitch yesterday. I'm not touchin' her." He quickly scurries from the room before anyone can argue.

Dickson looks at Smith, and the two place fists ahead of them. One. Two. Three. Rock bashes scissors.

"Your turn today, Dickson," Smith says with a smirk.

"Nuts. I used up all my luck in the game," says Dickson. He pauses, considering. "Trade you the cash?"

"No freakin' way, Dickson. I want to sleep well tonight." Smith shivers. "I always have nightmares after working with her. And that's not even from the bruises... although, thankfully, I haven't had to explain many more of those to my wife since we purchased that jacket from DuPont. It's embarrassing to say an eight-year-old girl beat me up, and I can't hit back. And that ain't even mentioning the you-know-what when we have to bathe her."

Dickson shakes his head in forlorn understanding. "I know what you mean. How can such a little child be so strong? And, about the other stuff -" Dickson lowers his voice to a whisper. "- don't talk about it, or you might end up in a cell next to her."

"Good point. I'll go handle another wing. You're stuck with the girl."

Dickson slouches his shoulders in defeat.

-oOo-

Dickson feels that weird tingling in his body and the hairs on his neck stand at attention as he walks into the girl's wing. No sound is heard but that of his own footsteps. He passes cell after cell, all of them empty, devoid of people, devoid of their life, devoid of their insanity.

Dickson would feel better if they were there.

But a few months after Red came, the wing was evacuated. Except, of course, for Red. The warden never gave an official explanation, but everyone knows why. The insane in the wing started getting worse... a lot worse. They rambled about dreams, the end of the world, the beginning of a new one. They gibbered sounds, hideous half-words that could not possibly come from a human mouth. It was awful.

Actually, maybe Dickson feels better that they aren't here.

Then he arrives at her cell. 'Red' was the only name they had for the girl, after her long, fiery hair. She sits in the center of her cell, wrapped securely in her custom kevlar straight-jacket, gibbering in awful inhuman tongue at the walls. Dickson grabs and dons a large pair of ear-muffs from a nearby hook. For a while, he watches her gibbering at nothing. It always stops. He'd rather not enter while she's talking; she's as likely to maul you as hug you to death.

He feels something creep onto his shoulder, hovering near his neck.

"Aghhhh!" Dickson jumps a foot into the air, then turns to see a hand that leads, quite thankfully, to an arm and a young man. He clutches his chest. "You scared me there."

"I have that effect on people," the intruder answers quietly.

Dickson takes in his features. The person that scared him is Asian, right around twenty, dressed in dark robes. A long, thin rapier sits in a scabbard at one side and a large book rests in his opposite hand. His face looks very unhealthy; bags hang under his eyes from weeks of missing sleep... or maybe nightmares of the sort Red inspires. His figure of well-toned muscles ill-hidden beneath baggy robes tells another story.

Another coot, concludes Dickson. "Are you sure you don't belong in a cell here?"

"I will not be here for long. I just have something to deliver to... the girl."

Dickson notices the pause. "You know who she is?"

The boy shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Here. Give this to her. Place it around her neck." The boy proffers what seems to be an iron amulet on a silver chain.

Dickson scowls, thinking of the bruising he might receive in the attempt. "Why would I do something like that? You want to risk your life putting that on her? Go right ahead."

The boy blinks. "Well, I do notice all these cells are empty. This will seal that particular effect. Further," he pulls out another necklace, iron on a nylon cord, "I will give you this. It will protect you from the dreams. What do you say? Two for the price of zero?"

Dickson raises a hand and scratches his chin. He had long since given up disbelieving in magic, for his own sanity. Of course others would not see it that way, but they needn't know. And the very worst that can happen is she strangles herself to death with that chain.

That wouldn't be too bad.

"I'll do it."

The boy hands him the two amulets then walks away, seeming to fade into the shadowed hall.

-oOo-

Red lifts the necklace in her hand, dangling it in front of her. It is her friend, her protector, her companion... it keeps the nightmares away. It keeps the whisperers in the darkness away. And they say if she keeps getting better, she'll be able to go away too. That will be nice; the cell has been getting boring.

She likes that. She hadn't been bored for a long time.

Or she liked it for a while. Boredom was finally becoming, well, boring.

Time really is a formless thing, especially when stuck in a white padded cell without a clock. The only things she can count are the meals she eats and those times that the orderlies bathe her... but she couldn't do that before. Time had no meaning before.

They let her start bathing herself now, so long as she doesn't take off the amulet. Not that she would. But it doesn't do to let the thing get wet; it would rust. And rusting metal would not feel good against her skin. Not that she recalls any experience with it; she just knows this to be true. So she tries to keep it dry and well oiled, despite having to keep it on in the bath.

She continues looking at her amulet. The shadows, the voices were afraid of it. Or maybe they just didn't like it. Anyhow, they kept their distance. The eye, the seal, the flame... it is not a sign she recognizes, but she is drawn to it. It seems right. It doesn't matter how it works, so long as those things stay away.

She still hears them whispering, but they haven't approached her.

Red isn't sure whether she is sane. But she does know sanity must be her disguise if she wants to break these chains. To free herself from this place, she must perfect it. Thus, Red stopped speaking to the voices. Even when they call desperately to her from the distance, she ignores them. The orderlies seem to like this. They say it is a step towards sanity.

Other voices now fill the halls too... the voices of people in the cells nearby. She only hears them when the door opens, or when she is on her way to the bath and back. Sometimes she sees them. Sometimes their voices even overwhelm the whisperers. Of course, maybe those other people were there all along, and she was just now beginning to notice them. Red isn't sure.

But their last question before she received this necklace still burns in her mind. Who are you? Who are you who speaks from the light? Who are you... who am I? She wants to know, too. She had started to think of herself as 'Red'. That is what the orderlies call her. But something about the name doesn't seem right.

And so she seeks answers at night. Her dreams had changed and were no longer of places better left forgotten... places best left locked away, blocked away. Instead, her dreams were strange. She was a boy, an older boy, with problems of his own.

She's not a real boy, except when she takes a bath, but she plays one in her dreams. At that thought, for some unknown reason, her chest feels like convulsing. She can even imagine the sound of a hundred horrid screams to go with it. She resists the desire. Those convulsions, and that sound, are definitely signs of insanity.

The older boy was skilled at hurting people. He was strong. The orderlies say she is strong too, but she doesn't believe them; they are just trying to make her happy by complimenting her, or maybe trying to keep her from hitting them. They say it hurts when she does that, so she eventually stopped. But she's weak compared to that boy. She's probably as strong as an average girl her age. Well, an average insane girl. Willems says that insane people are sometimes bloody absurdly strong. Not that she'd know because they never let her out of her cell, except to bathe.

What was weird is that in the dreams the boy turns into a girl. Red guesses this must be normal for people, or at least not too unusual. The orderlies certainly do not pay attention to the change.

And the boy had a name. Wild Horse. Except it sounded different. She wasn't sure exactly how it was supposed to sound. Red was simpler though... fewer syllables.

Red drops the amulet back to her chest and thinks about how to pass the time. There isn't much to do in a padded cell. But, she could do a little of what that boy does. Maybe she can become strong, too.

So she stands and slips smoothly into a basic kata of the Musabetsu Kakuto Ryuu.

Red never questions why she can do it so easily. It seems far too natural to question.

-oOo-

Willems tosses the dice and makes a face. "Ah, bloody hell!"

"That's Boardwalk, Willems; cough up the cash," Dickson exclaims with a grin.

"Shit. Why do you get all the bloody luck with these games?" Willems laments, shoving a fistful of hard cash towards Dickson. "That's it, I'm out. I can't even mortgage a bloody thing anymore."

"Not all the luck. I swear I get Red half the time," Dickson complains.

"I get more than my fair share of that girl, too," Smith grumbles.

Willems scowls, "You ain't gonna' get me to pick her up with a bloody pity trick."

"Awww! Come on! She isn't half as bad as she used to be," Dickson says, pushing the issue. "And we all know how many times you ran out when she was really bad."

"Not as bad? Last time I saw her she was dancing like a bloody mad marionette."

Smith laughs making a playful punch at Willems. "That's kung-fu. Haven't you seen any of those Hong Kong martial arts movies?"

"You can call it what you bloody well like, but I still say that girl has somethin' wrong with her," Willems replies.

Dickson tosses the dice and grins when he lands on an unclaimed territory. "Heh. One more to go. I'm buying. Oh, and we won't have to worry about Red much longer anyway."

Smith raises an eyebrow as he accepts some cash and drops a deed into Dickson's waiting hand. "You hear something?"

"You didn't? I thought the crab told everyone," Dickson answers with a shrug. "Apparently some people are politicking above and some family is going to be stuck with her."

"Poor sods. Bloody glad it ain't me," Willems declares.

"Can't disagree with that. It seems Red is the only known survivor of an explosion a while back. Remember, a little over two years ago?"

"The underground?" Smith asks. He tosses the dice.

Dickson nods, then adds, "I think the governor is trying to pick up some pity votes."

"The only one getting my pity vote is the family that picks her up," says Smith. "Oh, look at that! I won a beauty contest," he exclaims happily while forking some cash from the bank.

Willems grabs the dice. "Ain't bloody likely, Smith. That is one thing Red has going for her; she'll be a vixen when she grows older. Ah, dammit!" Willems looks forlornly at where his little shoe lands, not noticing the sweatdrops that form on the other orderlies. "Bloody hell. Well, at least I passed Go." He hands a small wad of cash to Smith.

"Maybe if it weren't for you-know-what," Dickson says after a pause. He grabs the dice. "I know I couldn't think of her that way."

Willems scowls. "I never said I'd think of her that way. I just said she'll be bloody pleasing to look at."

Smith raises an eyebrow. "Of course."

"You guys are bloody sick."

"Think I should put a hotel here?" asks Dickson as he lands on Pacific Avenue.

Smith and Willems turn synchronized scowls towards him.

Dickson grins mischievously in response. "If you're strapped for cash, Willems, I'm willing to purchase Orient and Vermont at exorbitant prices," he adds.

"I hate you," says Smith, glowering.

"Including the bloody mortgage?" asks Willems.

Dickson nods.

"Okay. What are you offerin'?"

"Damn you, Dickson." Smith turns to Willems. "I'll buy ONE of those lands for more than whatever that bastard offers. I sure as hell ain't giving him another monopoly."

Willems grins like a shark.

-oOo-

"Do you really think this is the right thing to do? I've always wanted another child... and the doctors said I couldn't have one. But... but what will Hermione think?" asks an elegant, brown-haired woman of middling years to her husband. She stands near him that her soft voice carry no further than his ear.

The heavy-set man in a sweater nods and pulls off his glasses to wipe the lenses. It is a gesture of nervousness more than from any real need to defog them. He has said he wanted this; he jumped at the offer when it was presented to him. But his wife had yet to really understand.

"Remember, a little over two years ago, when an explosion destroyed a section of the underground and collapsed the road above it?" he starts.

"You told me about it afterwards. It was tragic," the woman says in affirmation.

The man nods. "Several cars dropped into gaping hole where the road and a small building collapsed into the underground. I was in a train not too far from the collapse. If it had happened even a minute later, our train would not have had time to stop."

He sticks his glasses back on and turns to his wife, who is clutching her knuckles tight and biting her lip nervously. She doesn't like talking about death... especially not the death of one close to her.

He continues, "Forty people died that day. I know; I helped dig them out.

"And it was awful; several of their faces..." The man shivers a bit. "Sometimes... sometimes I fear it was not the collapse that killed those people. Their faces still haunt my nights.

"When all the rubble was searched through, when all the bodies were counted, one young girl was found alive. She was the only survivor... a young Asian redhead, as rare as that is. Her father was long dead of wounds, but even in death his body held aloft several tons of rock, allowing his daughter room to breath. It was... unbelievable." He shakes his head in astonishment at the memory. The man looks at his wife, who is now shaking a little. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her gently to his chest. "I don't know why they came to us; we aren't registered as parents seeking to adopt. But I'm not going to turn them down. Unless... unless you feel otherwise."

A few tears streak his wife's face, and she shakes her head, burying her nose in his sweater. He holds her to him, occasionally making a few soothing noises, calming down his wife with expertise.

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger?"

The man turns to see a tall redhead in an oversized coat. "Yes. And you are?"

"Oh, sorry. Should have introduced myself first. Heh." He wipes his hand down his old coat, then sticks it out for Mr. Granger to grasp. "Mr. Arthur Weasley, Ministry of Magic, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, at your service. You can call me Arthur."

Mr. Granger pauses for a moment, then firmly grips the man's hand. "Call me Gareth. This is Elinore. What is the Ministry of Magic doing here? And why Misuse of Muggle Artifacts?"

Gareth had received a crash-course on the wizarding world when Hermione received her letter last June. He needed to know enough to help buy her supplies. He knows that he and his wife are considered "Muggles," although the word seems somehow repugnant to him. However, he still doesn't know much about the Ministry of Magic. Not that he'd let himself seem ignorant. Gareth is a man who prides his intelligence, and is more than a little vain about it.

"Heh heh," laughs Arthur. "Fudge learned about a little project I was playing with on the side and gave me this job to keep me busy. Anyhow, this girl is a special case with the Ministry. That's why we contacted you. Actually, I picked you based on what my son Ron has told me about your daughter, Hermione."

Elinore beams and Gareth grimaces briefly at the mention of their daughter... and this man's boy.

Arthur continues obliviously, "The Ministry wants the girl with a Muggle family, but somewhere we can watch her. They aren't sure whether she is a young witch or not. My wife, Molly, would have liked another little redhead girl, but the Ministry refused.

"Anyhow, you'll get a chance to talk with her before you decide. And I can even give you a little time. If not, however, I'll search for another appropriate family. I do hope you choose her; I can't think of a family better suited for it. So, what do you say? Let's go in and see her."

Gareth nods, taking Elinore's hand in his own. "Show us the way."

-oOo-

The Grangers step into the warden's office and Arthur shuffles in closely behind them. It is a smallish room, meagerly decorated with a desk and a few file cabinets on the opposite wall. The warden, a middle-aged weasel of a man with a wide, thin mustache and a pointy little nose that twitches periodically as he peruses some paperwork, glances up immediately when the group enters. "Ah, good. I trust that you are the ones looking to adopt the child?"

"Indeed," Gareth says in response.

"Do you have the paper work?" the warden asks carefully. He wants to make sure this is done right.

"Oh, pardon me. I had almost forgotten. It'll be just a minute, don't mind me," Arthur says padding his pockets in search of the papers. Everybody minds him, watches, and waits. After a very long minute, Weasley lifts the papers free and flutters them extravagantly in the air. "Ah! There we are; all the appropriate documents should be here."

"No matter. I have a few of my own. As long as it's all here we can finalize the exchange."

Elinore speaks up, almost frantic. "Can't we see her first?"

The warden pauses and blinks. "Yes, of course. My apologies. I hardly mean to rush you into anything," the warden explains. "Walk this way." He shoves his way between Elinore and Gareth into the hall, then starts hopping and skipping in some indecipherable design towards his destination.

Arthur starts to hop... then stops and forces himself to walk normally. "What fascinating modes of travel Muggles have."

The warden turns around. "Ho! I just love doing that, working in this nuthouse. They tell me a lot, the reactions of a person."

Gareth glares at the man and Elinore gives the warden a dirty look. "That wasn't very funny," she says.

Gareth frowns with a little disgust and adds, "Pardon, but I do not think we have properly introduced ourselves. I am Gareth Granger, and this is my wife, Elinore."

"I'm Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts," pipes in Arthur.

"Of course, of course. The name is Crab, Mr. Crab. I've run this nut-house for the better part of ten years. Moogle artifacts, you say?" Crab's nose twitches, then he starts moving down the hall.

"No. Those aren't a problem outside Japan," says Arthur hastily. "And some secluded places in China and Russia," he adds after a moment.

Maybe he belongs here too, thinks Crab as he glances around. His eyes catch a little movement; one his orderlies is surreptitiously leaving the hallway, plunger in hand. "Willems! Willems! Get back here!" the warden shouts.

Willems steps back into the hallway. "What the bloody hell do you want this time? If it's another backed up toilet, you can damn well fix it yourself," Willems growls. He throws a dirty plunger at Crab.

"Willems!" Crab snaps, catching the plunger neatly out of the air. "Have more respect. These gentlemen and this wonderful lady have asked to see the girl."

"The girl?" Willems scratches his rear. "Oh, you mean Red." Willems stops and tries to jerk the plunger from Crab, but is unable to twist it from the small man's wiry grip. "Say, are you sure we don't have another backed-up toilet? If not, I can put the plunger away."

"Willems, I am not in the mood to put up with your games today," the warden says sternly. Then he leans close and hisses into Willems's ear, "Remember, these people might be taking her away, so be polite."

"Hey, hey I didn't say I wasn't going to bl- do it," Willems says with a scowl.

"Good, Willems." Crab turns to his guests instead. "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and of course Mr. Weasley, just follow Mr. Willems. He will take care of your visit with the girl. When you're done, just meet me in the office and we'll take care of the final papers." Crab turns and starts skipping down the hall a few steps before walking normally, twirling and tossing the plunger like a baton.

"Is there a problem?" Elinore asks Willems.

"Yeah. Crab is a nut. 'Cept the cell they stuck him into happens to be the one behind the boss's door."

Elinore glares. "I mean with the girl!" she snaps. "Neither of you want to go see her."

"Ah. No. Not at all. Nope, nothing of the sort," Willems answers defensively.

Gareth watches Willems like a hawk while he leads the way and quietly asks Arthur, "I don't like the way they're acting. Is there something the Ministry knows that you aren't telling us?"

"Not in the least, Gareth. I have told you everything I know. We could ask good sir Willems here. Perhaps the child is just manifesting a bit of her talent," Arthur offers.

"If you are done chatting, we can go into the bloody room," Willems says impatiently.

"I want you to tell me what makes you so nervous about this girl," returns Elinore.

Willems scowls, noticing that he isn't going to get anywhere without a story. Well, perhaps if he tells the story right... He starts, "Okay... but don't tell the crab I said anything. Ever since Red came here, things have been... bad. The whole bloody wing felt haunted. It was creepy. Most of the regulars quit, stickin' me, Dickson, and Smith with the job. Not that I mind too much; Crab doubled our salary just to keep us. It may just be a coincidence, of course; she came only a little before the wing began feeling creepy. But most of us blamed it on her. I still do." He shakes his head. "I'll be damn happy when she's gone. However, I can't say it hasn't gotten better. For the last few months, things have been normal. She even started speaking to us. I think she's sane now and you can take her away. So, you ready to go see her?"

Gareth raises an eyebrow to Arthur, who simply nods. Yes, it is possible for a mentally unstable young witch to unconsciously manifest powers and make someplace feel haunted.

Elinore wrings her hands nervously. "This place is haunted?"

Gareth drops a hand onto Elinore's shoulder, causing her to jump a little. She doesn't like haunted things, either. And she's started to believe in them since her visit to Diagon Alley. "She's probably just a young witch, dear," he whispers, "manifesting her powers unconsciously." He turns back to Willems. "I do believe that everything is in order."

"Good. I'd like to get this over with as soon as bloody possible," Willems responds. He flips through his keys then unlocks the door. Before opening it his hand pauses at the necklace. Then he withdraws it and mutters, "I'd look a bloody fool."

"Ah! What is this you have here?" Arthur asks, grabby hands picking up the necklace in curiosity. "Curious, most curious. It reminds me of some of the protection charms that I saw once in-"

Gareth lets loose a loud cough. "Mr. Weasley, I don't think this is the best of places."

"Of course, of course. I'm just getting a bit ahead of myself," Arthur says, pulling himself away from the necklace with an act of great willpower.

"Just some charm for us superstitious types," Willems growls in irritation. "Are we going to be here all bloody day?"

"My apologies, Mr. Willems. Mr. Weasley is easily distracted," Gareth replies.

Willems just holds his scowl as he opens the door. "Here she is. I really hope you like what you see."

Gareth starts to move forward before Willems bars the way with a burly arm. "Hey, I wouldn't just waltz in there if I were you. Red gets a bit jumpy when people surprise her, and she's bloody strong."

"I think a grown man like myself is more than capable of handling a little girl, Mr. Willems," Gareth replies, insulted by Willems's words.

"I ain't exactly a runt myself, but that girl could bloody well arm-wrestle Hercules and put him six feet under," Willems replies. He pulls himself to his full height. Willems is easily the larger of the two. Not that Gareth admits to it, as he draws himself to full height and begins to flex an arm. The gesture is lost within his sweater.

Elinore peeks between the two men in their vanity and catches sight of the girl. "How beautiful! She's dancing."

"That's no dance, Miss. It's some kind of kung-fu or something... you know, like them Hong Kong movies?" Willems replies. Then he turns back to the room and pounds on the door loudly. "Hey Red! Red! You've got some people here who want to see you."

The girl pauses and seemingly drifts to the ground, her muscles flowing with smooth power. Then the pounding catches her attention. Her body shifts like lightning; muscles explode with unearthly energy. Her eyes flash feral fury and, for a moment, Gareth tenses, fearing she is about to attack. She halts, her nose an inch from his own. A trill of terror crosses him; he feels as a man naked before a dragon.

Then she falls back and into a relaxed stance, and her cerulean eyes twinkle with naught but curiosity. Yet all Gareth can hear is the beating of his heart. Again he remembers her father, dead from wounds unknown, carrying a chunk of road a thousand times his size; Atlas holding the world on his shoulders to shelter his daughter. For the first time, he really believes what his eyes told him all those years ago.

Is she human? And if not, what is she?


	2. Warped Reflections

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

**Started: **September 17, 2004

**Last Update:** December 10, 2004

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**Chapter One: Warped Reflections**

My dear Sir, take any road, you can't go amiss. The whole state is one vast insane asylum.

- James Louis Petigru

-oOo-

Red lay her head against a pane of frosty glass and rests her eyes upon the images beholden within. Her ethereal reflection fades out and in and out again, a ghost playing in the electric lights. A light drizzle of icy rain pitters against the window, almost without sound, and Red watches with interest as the water slowly slides and joins larger drops before slipping away under the ministrations of wind and gravity.

Her image gazes back, frightened and lonely.

One small hand clasps her medallion tightly. It somehow sits cold against her skin, bringing little comfort against the vast darkness. She is finally out... out of that awful place of endless ennui and inhuman whispers. But it was also a place of eternal light, eternal warmth. And where had she ended up? In the cold. In the dark.

And the whispers follow.

Red pays little attention to the conversation drifting from the front of the car. Instead, she takes reassurance from their soft tones. She listens to the lilting highs and resonant lows, allowing them to lull her towards sleep.

The moon sits near the horizon, red and full, a hunter's moon peeking through the drifting clouds. Red gazes at it until the car makes a sharp turn, tearing it from her sight. But just before it goes, it joins her reflection... a dark goddess with intense eyes and flaming hair. Full lips form words and she hears it whisper, "Join us."

Then a dulcet voice causes her to rise. "We're home."

Red yawns widely, stretches her arms towards the ceiling, and blinks bleary eyes to briefly banish her weariness. It doesn't work. She searches about in confusion; the whole situation – the car, the clouds, the moon, the stars, the very idea of having a home seems utterly alien. Her door swings open and Gareth's large form steps back, holding the door ajar and giving her a wide berth. Red rubs her eyes and looks at him curiously.

"Gareth dear, what is taking so long?" Elinore asks, swinging around from the passenger side.

"Nothing, Elinore," Gareth answers gruffly.

Stooping down, the man gently wraps his arm around Red and lifts the little girl from her seat. The hug feels comfortable, and Red cuddles with Gareth before he sets her feet on the ground and gingerly directs her towards the door. The hand on her medallion tightens as she gazes into the yawning darkness.

The door clicks open revealing even deeper shadows within. Red pulls herself close to Gareth's leg. Gareth winces slightly and pleads, "Elinore... lights please."

"Is something wrong?" Elinore asks worriedly as she banishes the darkness with the flick of a switch.

Red's grip softens and she steps a bit away from Gareth. Her eyes widen momentarily as she scans about the foyer taking in new and delightful sights. It is almost enough to drive away weariness and for a moment Red bounces on her toes. She is with her new parents at her new home to start a new life. She smiles a little, feeling intense warmth at the thought. Finally, she has someplace to call "home." She wants it, needs it more than she ever expected. Then her eyes droop once again.

"It appears that our new daughter is bit scared of the dark and like the orderly said she has quite the grip," Gareth says, following Red into the room. "I'll set things up in Hermione's room. Can you get her ready for bed?"

Elinore nods with a smile and looks down at Red, her eyes filled with delight. She grabs Red's tiny hand in her own and pulls her onwards. The little girl is led up the stairs, staggering with weariness.

With one last tug Red is pulled into a small room. Elinore releases the girl and swoops to the bath and turns on the water. The rush of the steamy fluid helps bring Red out of her stupor. Her eyes widen in joy at the prospect of a hot bath. Then she turns her gaze to the mirror set above the sink.

She sees no dark goddess within it. She sees only herself... red haired, weary, wet with icy rain. She gives herself a wan smile.

Elinore pushes a small object into her hand. Red stares at it as the older woman asks, "Do you know how to brush your teeth or do you need help?"

Red nods. Standing up on her toes she leans across the sink and starts up the water. A moment later she is brushing, arm buzzing like a chain saw and foamy toothpaste suds threatening to spill from her mouth.

"Slow down there! Remember to get behind the teeth too," Elinore cries in dismay. The little girl is going to wear her teeth to nubs at that rate. Red slows to a merely furious pace and casts an inquisitive look at Elinore.

Elinore does not see it. Her attention is focused on the bath; she dips a hand into the water, testing the heat. While adjusting the knobs slightly, she says thoughtfully to herself, "Now what are we going to call you?"

Red opens her mouth to answer, but cannot. The question haunts her. Who are you? This time, though, the answer cavorts teasingly upon the tip of her tongue, as if about to reveal itself.

"Oh dear, what a mess!" Elinore exclaims, rushing over. She stoops down and wipes away a trail of bubbling paste that had escaped Red's gap and made its way down her chin. "Now you need to wash out your mouth," Elinore explains, dabbing the face of her newest child a few more times.

Red grabs a handful of water, swishes it about in her mouth, and spits into the sink. Elinore smiles then grabs the dental floss. She draws a length of it and offers it to her daughter. Red accepts it, but looks at Elinore in confusion.

"That is dental floss," Elinore explains. Red shows no understanding, so Elinore sighs, "Here, I'll show you how to use it."

Elinore places her hands around Red's and takes her through the paces. Red remains confused as to the point of the ritual. Still, it doesn't seem worth the effort to resist. Thus she allows Elinore to again and again scrape her teeth and press her gums with the little piece of string.

"There you go!" Elinore says proudly, patting her daughter on the head. "Now that your teeth are all brushed, it's time for you to take a bath."

Red peels off her clothes without hesitation, dropping them unceremoniously to the ground. The medallion dangles from her neck against her naked skin. She moves towards the water, almost desperate to let its warmth sink into her body and vanquish the remaining cold. But a hand stops her.

"What is that?" Elinore demands, snatching up the necklace. She gazes upon the cast-iron mold of a flame within an eye within a star, and she grimaces. Whatever it purpose, it looks positively satanic. "No daughter of mine is going to wear something like this," Elinore snaps.

Red's eyes harden in disapproval and her brows and lips knit a frown that appears petulant on her face. Her hand grasps Elinore's; Elinore can feel the power in the girl's small hand, constrained by a mad will that can crush her bones with a casual twitch.

"Okay," Elinore starts cautiously. "I'll talk to Gareth first. Still, you need to take it off before bathing, or it will rust," Elinore says, releasing her grip on the medallion. It falls back to Ranma's chest.

Red's frown vanishes and her eyes twinkle in playful thought. She gazes at the bath, then her medallion, and after a moment, a tiny grin decorates the girl's face.

She lifts the medallion from her neck and drops it upon the hamper.

Elinore smiles a small victory. It is short lived. Almost the instant the medallion's silver chain escapes Red's touch, the lights above the mirror flicker wildly. A chill sweeps up Elinore's back and those little hairs on her neck stand at attention.

The lights stabilize in a low buzz. They provide an impossible half-light to the room. Shadows stretch, dark claws, stark and hard along the walls. They seem to crawl and waver sickly, but only in the corner of her eyes, wherever she isn't looking at them directly. She stares at the dark shadow bordering the sink, daring it to move so she can catch it... and hoping it won't.

She shudders.

Deep within, Elinore feels sick anticipation, dread, fear, the primal knowledge that this is NOT a safe place to be, something dangerous is coming, run, Run, RUN! The feeling grows like a cancer in her soul. Her breath quickens. Her hands curl into fists, squeezing tight until the knuckles turn white, and she is surprised to feel something cold and hard in her left hand.

Her hand is on the hamper, and within it is the ward. And suddenly she feels safe.

A pair of small, warm, powerful hands firmly but gently take hers and remove the medallion from her tight grip. Elinore turns in surprise, calming at the touch of her daughter. She sees Red once again placing the silver chain about her neck. The shadows melt away, once again reached by the soft light as they are meant to be.

Red looks up, face impassive, her eyes once again upon Elinore's.

Elinore gazes back and searches Red deeply for a moment. Deep within those eyes, she sees hurt, fear, insecurity, pain, loss, and a terrible, terrible darkness. Impulsively, she folds her daughter into a hug, pressing the little girl's head between her breasts. She shudders momentarily, then tightens the hug even further and runs a hand down the girl's back and long, red hair.

Her daughter hesitantly returns the hug, then squirms away and hops playfully into the tub.

Splash!

Daughter? Elinore blinks, hoping she is just imagining things. Momentarily, she gazes at the child's familiar face framed by unfamiliar black hair. But once again, her eyes wander downwards to one very un-daughterly feature that she is sure hadn't been there a minute before.

The young boy in the tub casually grabs a bar of soap and works up a lather before sinking into the watery warmth.

"GARETH!"

-oOo-

Morning sunlight pours through the kitchen, rebounding from the well-polished table and white linoleum floor, casting everything in its glaring light. Outside a few small birds twitter and a skinny squirrel gnaws on a small nut. A chilly paperboy makes his rounds, buried within layers of cloth, puffing misty little clouds, pedaling his ten-speed mountain bike carefully along the icy road and tossing papers to diligent subscribers of the London Globe.

One paper lands on the Grangers' lawn, shattering the ice encasing on several blades of grass, the Sunday edition, with full-color comics and loads of advertisements. It has been two full days and three long nights since they brought the little redhead home from the asylum on Thursday evening.

The newly adopted daughter was adapting quickly.

Shortly after the paper lands, she prances out the door, grabs the paper, runs back in shivering a bit, and tosses the Globe upon the immaculate kitchen table for Gareth to read. Then she bumps Elinore away from the stove and quickly flips several pancakes and five eggs, and pokes the few remaining pieces of sizzling bacon before deciding flipping those is premature. The vibrant redhead sends a hurt look in her new mother's direction.

Elinore licks her greasy fingers a few more times, enjoying the salty victory of stolen bacon, and smiles playfully at her daughter. "I told you last night that I'd cook this morning. And it really isn't fair, claiming all that for yourself," she says, waving a hand towards the piles of fruit pancakes, bacon, and eggs that could feed any five normal adults.

The little girl smirks at her before turning back to the food.

Gareth stomps down the stairs, foul mood held in check only by his weariness. Both can be banished with his regular morning caffeine fix. Elinore pours a steaming cup of coffee and places it into the man's waiting hand. He drinks it greedily before pouring himself another cup and dropping into his customary seat. He blinks in surprise to see the Globe already sitting in front of him.

"Thanks," Gareth says, not knowing to whom it's addressed. "I'm hoping for that return call today," he adds.

"Mr. Weasley?" asks Elinore, taking a sip of her own coffee.

Gareth nods.

They had been trying to get in contact with the man to ask about the girl's transformation in hot water, and about the medallion. Mr. Weasley returned an owl saying he'd call. That was on Friday.

The Grangers' search for information had turned up only what they already knew. She was in an explosion; a man assumed to be her father was found dead near her; neither carried any identifying papers, and when nobody arrived to claim her despite the amount of news regarding the event, she was assumed to be an orphan. So they had been waiting on Mr. Weasley for the last several days.

And those last several days had been hectic.

On Friday morning, Gareth awoke groggy and cranky to the sounds of her bouncing off the walls in the family room at some obscene hour before sunrise. After several large, desperate cups of coffee, Gareth made it clear she isn't to do that again, but that she may practice outside. Shortly thereafter, they found some of Hermione's old coats that fit the girl. And without a word, she leaped into the distance, across the rooftops, and away.

For a while, Gareth and Elinore were afraid they had lost the girl. However, that evening the little girl was found upon the roof, gazing at the stars and clutching her medallion. They didn't even try getting an explanation of the day's activities from the girl; as dentists, they know that pulling teeth would be far easier.

On Saturday morning, when the redhead left the table without cleaning up, they asked her to help with the chores. The child agreed eagerly, as though she were searching for something, _anything,_ to do. And she took to them it with gusto, performing chores with far more coordination, speed, and showy flair than the Grangers thought possible. Tables were cleared and dishes were washed within minutes.

But nobody ever asked her to cook. She asked to do that on her own. Well, saying she asked is technically incorrect. On Saturday night, the child tugged on Elinore's sleeve and indicated she wished to join. She proved surprisingly adept in the kitchen, as though she had practice before, although her skill with a knife was startling for a child who had spent the last two years kept well away from any sort of edged object.

This morning, Elinore and Gareth pleasantly awoke to another surprise: their daughter preparing bacon, eggs, and fruit pancakes in vast quantities. Coffee was already brewing in the pot. There are very few pleasures greater than waking to the smell of cooking bacon and coffee. It was definitely one of the few pleasant surprises they had received from the young girl in the sixty hours since they brought her home.

All surprises aside, however, including the little surprises in the bath that first night, the primary reason the Grangers had problems adapting to the girl is that she hadn't yet spoken a single word. The rest could be explained away with, "Her father was a super-powered martial artist that could lift a twelve-ton chunk of road while dying," or "It's just magic"... as silly as those explanations are. Ultimately they attributed her skill with the knife to the art, the weird shadows to magic, and her prodigious strength to both. The unbelievable becomes a little easier to believe when your first daughter is a witch and your second daughter is doing the impossible before your eyes.

So it was her avoidance of speech that bothered them the most.

Initially they had wondered if the poor child was mute, but a quick call to the Asylum defeated that assumption. Smith insisted the little girl had spoken on rare occasions; she is just quiet. Willems made the cruder observation that, "Red is probably afraid of what might come out of her bloody mouth when she speaks; ain't too surprisin' considerin' what was comin' out of that mouth before." He quickly added, "And we ain't takin' her back," before hanging up.

When they called back and asked about bathing and hot water, Willems quickly denied all knowledge of the girl's transformation before hanging up again. His claim, of course, verified that those orderlies knew more about the girl than they were telling, but didn't otherwise help.

Further, Elinore and Gareth still hadn't a clue what to call her. But they both agree that "Red" is an inappropriate name for a girl, or boy, whatever the case may be. And "Red Granger" would be far worse; it would undoubtedly be butchered to "Red Ranger" by malicious children within days. Considering the girl's unique... condition, Elinore and Gareth had considered several names that were gender neutral.

They need a final name soon. And a final gender. There are legal documents that need to be finalized and schooling to start. On the drive home Elinore and Gareth had been discussing sending the girl to Hermione's old elementary school, a prestigious all-girl's school, but they are now uncertain as to whether they even have the gender right.

And what, exactly, will they tell Hermione?

Whoosh!

A plate sails, twirling and wobbling, through the air. Elinore flinches, fully expecting a mess of shattered glass and food. However, the plate lands gently, rolling about its inner rim, and slides to a stop in front of Gareth without losing any food. Shortly thereafter, a fork sails into place beside it, and another plate lands in front of Elinore.

Elinore slowly releases a breath she did not know she was holding. Getting used to their newest child is definitely going to take some work. Then she frowns at her plate. She didn't get any bacon.

Gareth chuckles at her while shuffling through the Globe and sipping some coffee. "Just deserts? I'll bet you stole some bacon before it was finished again, didn't you?"

Elinore sighs and nods, looking up to see a smirking redhead sitting opposite her. "Thank you," she says to the girl, flashing a sincere smile. Then Elinore picks up a fork and begins to eat.

The young chef smiles and blue eyes twinkle in the sunlight. The lion's share of food is carefully guarded upon her plate, at least for the few brief moments before she begins plowing into it.

"Slow down," commands Gareth, lowering his newspaper, "You have the table manners of a vacuum cleaner."

The girl shoots an amused smirk in his direction, but slows down.

Gareth nods in satisfaction then briefly returns his attention to the paper.

Brrringgg! Brrringgg! The telephone rings.

Gareth folds the paper then heads for the phone. "Hello," he intones, "Granger residence. ... Ah! Mr. Weasley, I've been hoping you'd call. ...," Gareth's momentary smile tightens into a grimace. "Yes, I know you're fascinated with phones and Muggle technology. But if using the phone is such a hassle, I'll be happy to meet face to face. ...," Gareth's frown deepens, and his voice becomes a bit rougher as he adds, "Enough about the inefficacy of phone books! I'm so very sorry you had to call twelve other Granger families before you found us. But, can we get to the topic at hand? What do you know about my newest daughter that I do not?"

After a moment, the big man scowls into the phone and begins pacing. He flashes a quick glare at Elinore.

Elinore frowns, then takes her child's arm and drags the girl away from the kitchen. Her daughter desperately grabs a handful of pancakes off her plate before it's out of reach. Even as the two leave, they hear Gareth shout, "What do you _mean_ you didn't know! What's that ministry of yours good for, anyway?"

Elinore and the girl retreat to a smaller, dimly lit room centered around a tinted-glass coffee table. Documents are strewn across the table and two fashionable, low, cushioned chairs and a matching love seat are placed around it. Her daughter jumps into one chair, almost knocking it over, before sinking into it. She tears a bite from a pancake in her hands, then turns a curious gaze to Elinore. Elinore gently sits in the love seat across from her. For a moment, Elinore regards the petite child and her flowing red hair in the dim sunlight that manages to find the room.

Gareth's voice shoots angrily from the kitchen, muffled by several walls.

"Dear," Elinore starts, gazing levelly at the girl, "you'll be starting school soon. But before you can go, you need a name... and you must also choose whether to be boy or girl."

Elinore forces that last bit out. She had already started thinking of her daughter as just that... a _daughter_, a _girl_, despite the child's obvious and boyish interest in martial arts.

Her child continues to gaze calmly and thoughtfully into her mother's eyes. Then the girl shrugs, cerulean eyes wandering back to the kitchen as another shout reaches her ears.

Elinore sighs then continues, "Gareth and I both agree that 'Red' isn't an appropriate name for you." Elinore pauses and waits for a reaction from the girl. When none arrives, Elinore forges onwards. "We came up with several names we think would be good for you, but since you're old enough to make a choice, you'll get the final say. Do you understand?"

The nine-year-old nods absently.

"For girl names we like Imogen, Miranda, or Ceres. We also picked few names in case you choose to be a boy. Lysander is a fine boy-only name, and Robyn or Avery would be decent whether you choose to be a boy or a girl."

Elinore pauses and waits for a response from the girl. The girl sits there, a look of intense concentration on her face.

Then Gareth walks in saying, "I'm actually rather fond of Avery." He sighs, then takes a seat next to Elinore, wrapping an arm around his wife. He gives a wan smile to his daughter.

Elinore blinks, then leans into Gareth. "Hush, husband. We promised we wouldn't pressure her either way. Besides, you know I like Imogen best. But did you learn anything about our as-yet nameless child?"

The child in question looks up in curiosity, awaiting an answer.

Gareth gazes momentarily at the redhead then sighs, shaking his head. "I guess you deserve to know, too. Mr. Weasley managed to get his hands on the Ministry of Magic's file about the girl and the accident two years ago. He had to call in some favors."

"You did apologize for yelling at him, and thank him for his help, did you not?" Elinore interjects sternly. "It isn't his fault you did not like what you heard."

Gareth shakes his head and gazes at Elinore. "I forgot. I should invite the man out at some point to make up for it," he says reluctantly. He looks at the ceiling for a moment then adds, "I imagine he'd be thrilled to experience Muggle drive-through cuisine."

Elinore scowls.

Gareth chuckles then continues somberly, "Anyhow, apparently the accident two years ago was magical in nature. However, the ministry arrived late at the scene. They could tell a battle had been fought, the collapse had occurred, and powerful, dark magics had been used. But they didn't know much else.

"Ministry 'aurors' are the wizarding world's equivalent of a police and detective force, and despite having magic, they work much like our own. They piece together the bigger puzzle from tiny clues. And they didn't have much to go on... a few magical residues and physical evidence left after the event. However, a few of their top analysts believe that a portal of _some sort_ had been opened to... _someplace_ else and _something_ tried to come through." Gareth frowns and continues, "They couldn't get more specific than that. Anyhow, according to the report, there is clear evidence of a very physical battle that collapsed the road, and at some point the portal was sealed."

Gareth turns to look at his adopted child. "They suspect your father was involved in the fight. The man believed to be your father died of wounds that neither ministry aurors nor our own doctors could recognize.

"Their only other action was to intervene when you had recovered enough to return to a normal life; they wanted you with a family like ours because... well, our eldest daughter, Hermione, is a witch. She just left for her first year at Hogwarts almost two months ago. You were found right where the portal supposedly opened, and they suspect that the magic would have some lasting effects, and that you might end up being a witch yourself."

Gareth turns to Elinore. "There was nothing about the medallion in her file. She must have received that recently, or they didn't think it was significant. They also had nothing about changing into a boy when splashed with hot water, but Mr. Weasley posits that may be one of the effects of the _incident_." Gareth growls a little then adds, "The investigation wasn't nearly thorough enough. The report seemed exceedingly vague."

Gareth sighs, releasing his tension and rage, then turns his gaze to the redheaded child. "So, do you have a name in mind? I'd prefer not to rush you, but these documents must be returned soon," he says, sweeping his hand across the documents on the table.

The girl gazes at the table, but does not answer.

"If you don't choose today or tomorrow, we'll have to choose for you," adds Elinore.

The child glances up at Elinore, then she concentrates, a petulant frown on her face.

Seeing that her daughter is getting nowhere Elinore prods the red head gently on with her words. "I especially like Imogen, and Ceres. There is also Avery... if you would rather. There is no need to rush, though. You still have all night to choose." Elinore adds the last quickly, trying to prevent her words from pressuring her daughter too much.

The little girl's frown holds a bit longer, then she speaks. But she grimaces in disgust as the words come out. "Wild Horse."

Elinore frowns and she opens her mouth to protest.

But the child shakes her head and swallows, then her face contorts with concentration and she tries again. This time she says, "Ranma. Call me Ranma."

-oOo-

"You are aware of our rather strict admissions policies and the reasons behind them, are you not, Mrs. Granger?" a rather stern looking woman asks.

Elinore's hands fidget in her lap. "Why yes, of course. But you see, you did such a good job with Hermione and I really wish to bring our newest daughter here."

The elderly woman smiles a bit. "Yes, I do remember Hermione. She was a rather uniquely gifted child." Then her face hardens. "I was rather sad to see her leave. We were hoping for her to complete her sixth form here. Where exactly did she go again, Mrs. Granger?"

"Err... Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts? I don't believe I have heard of the place."

"It's a boarding school in Scotland for... umm... rather uniquely gifted children," answers Elinore. She folds her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting.

"I see," responds the older woman, as though she really doesn't. The woman grabs a folder from a nearby shelf. "Very well. We'll see what we can do for your... newest daughter, was it?"

Elinore nods. "Her name is Ranma. She was recently adopted."

The older woman frowns and scribbles a few words. "How old is the girl, again?"

"Nine, we believe."

The older woman looks up and raises an eyebrow.

"Her exact date of birth is unknown," Elinore clarifies. "But she's very talented. I'm sure she'll do well here."

The older woman sets down her pen before speaking again. "Very well, we shall give yourdaughter a chance," she starts, "But do understand that we must test the child before we even consider admitting her. Headwings is, as you well know, a rather selective school. We have limited space, high demand, and a reputation to maintain. Bring her in and we shall see if your _adopted_ child can keep up with the finest and brightest girls in all England."

Elinore sighs, already giving up on the school. After all, how can Ranma, even as exceptional as she is, pass the tests to enter this place while missing two years of education? It would be best to simply give up and find a different school.

But it wouldn't hurt to let them test the child and find out where she's at.

-oOo-

Ranma leaps through the urban sky, landing softly on one rooftop before bounding towards another. Beads of sweat trail down her skin, even as her breath puffs visible in the cool air. As the redhead lands, she dodges back and lashes out, fighting shadows in a glorious dance.

Nobody else can tell that the shadow, in her mind, looks like a panda. If people were watching, they would only see her twirling and leaping in an impossible yet beautiful kata with grace and fervor. An experienced warrior might discern that she is shadow-fighting an opponent of great speed, size, and skill.

But nobody is watching.

The shadow stumbles to a well-timed sweep. Ranma tries to finish it, pushing from the rooftop with her arms and launching a vertical kick into the panda's chin. It doesn't work. Panda-shadow falls back a bit further, dodging in mid-stumble, and lifts a paw. She is sent crashing across the rooftop in an ill-composed heap.

Then the first rays of sunlight reach over the horizon. The shadow bows out and fades away. She stands up, brushes gravel out of her coat, and returns the bow in respect, directing it at the shadow's final position. She will continue the fight in tomorrow's morning twilight.

Yet, tomorrow's opponent might not be today's, for her shadows lie in her dreams. The child resurrects those from her nights and brings their strength to life in her fights. She rarely wins but always learns, and that has become her small victory. She once fought the boy who turns into the girl from whom she stole her name. She thoroughly lost, but she's getting stronger. It may take years or longer, but someday she will defeat even him.

It is rather sad, admitting defeat to your own shadow.

Ranma relaxes, taking a moment to stretch her lithe body. She grimaces a little as the stretching agitates a few bruises and gashes gained from her unfriendly meeting with gravel, brick, and concrete. However, they will soon be gone; they always are. So she deeply inhales the cool air, reveling in the pungent mix of city smog and morning dew, and looks around. The soft light of false dawn slowly evaporates to the rising sun. The morning sounds of a waking city fill the air.

Her repose is short lived. The sunlight invigorates her already energetic frame even further. The sights, the sounds, and the smells fill her. They give her a consuming need for action. Ranma jumps to another roof with renewed energy and her eyes cavort across the city in delight. On her face is a smile.

She has smiled a lot, recently.

And that smile widens as she remembers, today she is going to school. It sounds grand, a place where she will see and learn so many new things. New things are fun. Yet, there is doubt within her, something telling her that school _just might_ be boring. She casts that thought aside. School will offer new challenges. Gareth and Elinore tell her she will have to work hard to make up for years of lost education. So she has waited in anticipation as papers were finalized and the first day crept up. Now it is here, only hours away.

Ranma leaps and scurries with boundless energy, sweeping across the roofs before she hears some drifting voices and abruptly settles to watch a new event in the streets below.

Four boys gather in a shrouded alley. Three surround the fourth, a tall, skinny boy whose jaw is hard-set in defiance. But that defiance is accompanied by fear in the boy's eyes. He steps back as the other three approach, bumping into the brick wall behind him. A glance only tells him what he already knows. It's a dead end. So he draws himself up and hides his fear behind a glare directed at his tormentors.

"Now, Billy, you weren't gonna' scamper on us, were you?" A large chubby boy demands, a cruel smile upon his lips. He shoves the taller boy into the wall and sneers. "You weren't planning to betray your good friends, were you?"

Ranma leans over the edge to get a better angle. Pebbles fall from her position, clattering softly on the ground. Nobody notices. All are caught too deeply within the unfolding drama.

Billy grits his teeth and glares back. His hand briefly tightens into a fist, then opens again. He cannot fight them. He sweeps his gaze across the three boys. "I already gave you what you wanted, so leave me alone!"

A swarthy, rough looking boy leans close into Billy's face. "Eh? You think you can bloody get off telling us what to do?"

"Hey, that's not what I- oooffff" Billy's breath whistles out of his lungs. The swarthy boy extracts his fist.

Ranma's eyes widen as she watches the blow from above. Her breath quickens. She feels a stirring excitement in her chest, and can hardly contain herself. She grins and keeps watching.

Below, the chubby boy laughs like a hyena. "That's what you get for talkin' back to Jack."

"You can't bloody get off, but I just might let you get off bloody," Jack finishes. When there is no immediate answer Jack adds, "Get it?" He flashes a smile to his two companions.

"Dog's bollocks, Jack," says the third boy without a hint of enthusiasm as he digs through Billy's backpack.

"I didn't ask you, Dirk."

"Bugger that," Dirk replies, shrugging. He riffles through the bag a bit more. "Alright, I found them." He displays a handful of papers to the others.

Billy sees the documents and shouts, "Hey! Don't mess with my backpa-" A hard hand cuts Billy off as the chubby boy smacks him across the face.

"I thought you knew when to shut up, Billy," the boy adds with a smirk.

"Tommy, you berk!" Dirk says, leveling a glare at the chubby boy, "How many times do we need to tell you? Don't hit him in the face! We don't want him having to talk to the teachers."

"I told you to call me Tom!" the boy says, turning to face Dirk.

"Will you both shut the bloody hell up!" Jack yells.

Billy takes advantage of the opening and dives towards his backpack. He rushes past Tommy, knocking the bulky boy off balance. But his escape is cut short. Jack sticks a leg in the tall boy's path, tripping him, then sends a swift, powerful kick into Billy's belly.

"Where do you think you're going?" asks Jack.

Billy coughs up a little blood and vomit, trying to breath.

Ranma stares at the blood. Her eyes widen a bit further, but she takes no action.

Tommy stomps towards Billy, who is on his hands and knees trying to stand. "Jack asked you a question!" he howls. He pulls his pudgy leg back and launches a swift kick between Billy's legs, knocking the boy back down.

Billy curls up tightly, sticking one arm across his belly and another between his legs, and starts sobbing softly.

"Ah look... he's crying! What a girly-boy," says Tommy with mocking disdain.

"You kicked him in the bloody bollocks, Tommy! What kind of man kicks another man in the -?" demands Dirk.

Jack grins a little and interjects, "Dirk's right, ya' know. Why, I do believe you should apologize."

Tommy scowls for a few seconds, then breaks Jack's gaze and scuffs one foot across the ground before looking at Jack shamefacedly. "I'm sorry."

"To him, not me, you git!" Jack grabs the papers from Dirk's hand and squats next to Billy to attain a level gaze, grinning wickedly. "My friend's sorry for wrackin' ya'. He's not all that bright, ya' know. I'm almost willin' to call that punishment enough. After all, you have done a little somethin' to regain my favor." Jack shakes the papers a little and smirks. "However, there is still that small matter that you've been getting better grades than me, been breakin' the curve on the tests, 'n such. While it helps you, it hurts me, see? You've got to consider the greater good, 'n the rest of the class. You aren't tryin' to short-change your old buddy Jack now, are ya'?"

Billy looks at Jack through teary eyes and chokes out, "Of- of course not."

"Good, we can just call it a misunderstandin'. This time. But just to be perfectly clear -" Jack lifts up the paper that has Billy's name at the top and casually shreds it to pieces before tossing them into the air like so much confetti. He stands up, ready to leave.

Tom pauses for a moment to kick Billy once more, this time in the gut. "I ain't apologizin' for that," he snarls. Sneering down at the boy, he spits on him. "Betcha won't mess with us again you stupid git. If this paper is poxy, you can bet your arse I'm coming back for ya."

"Tommy, stop! You're going to kill-" Dirk starts. But he is cut off as a petite little redhead drops into the alley ahead of him. He stumbles back and shouts, "Blimey! It's a girl!"

Ranma's heart sings in her chest. She feels... passion. It needs release.

She bounces lightly on her toes, having just dropped down to join in on the fun... the kicking, the punching... She grins happily at the boys as adrenaline surges through her body. With a little hop she flies. A foot lashes out lightning fast, striking solidly into Tommy's shin.

The chubby boy howls in pain and drops to the ground clutching his leg. Ranma just whirls on, dancing like a dervish. Jack growls and throws a fist. Leaning slightly, Ranma lets it pass harmlessly by, gazing at the fist for a few frozen moments. She slides around, hair floating free, fiery red in the rising sun. In a flash she passes Jack and is in the Dirk's face, and then she is over him. A gentle push of her foot sends the scrawny boy on a collision course with Jack. They both go down in a tangle of limbs and painful moans.

The girl's face flushes in excitement. Images of a pigtailed boy cavort in front of her, shadow dancing in her mind, teasing her with tantalizing possibilities. Tom takes that moment to regain his feet. He grasps a loose board and swings. Rusty nails and rotting wood swish above Ranma's head; the blow doesn't even grip the girl's hair as she drops out of sight. The girl immediately flows into a vertical back kick, foot lancing upwards as the girl surges into the air. It catches the chubby boy beneath the chin, knocking him upwards and away. Ranma sashays toward the other two, paying Tommy no mind.

Ka-clack! A knife flashes freely in Jack's hand. He swings wildly. Ranma steps left then right, cleanly avoiding the strikes. Her heart shouts a loud "doki-doki" battle cry, faster and faster, an excited drummer beating in her chest. Her eyes gleam with joy, and her lips curve devilishly.

She steps closer to him and her body sways lightly in rhythm with his motion. Jack strikes again and again in vain with his knife. Then she is upon him, literally, somehow standing lightly on his knife-hand and smiling downwards. He looks up, incredulous, fear frozen into his face. Then the redhead blurs into a flurry of motion. Her foot catches him on the forehead as she wheels backwards off his arm. His head thumps loudly into the brick wall.

She lands softly upon her feet before Dirk. He immediately turns to run, but a quick step and bounce again places her in his path. He stares down at her, wide-eyed, towering above yet cowering before the child in his path. Ranma waits for his attack.

It never comes. Dirk cautiously takes a step back. Ranma pouts then shoves him, a light tap to his chest. Dirk staggers before catching his balance. She waits again, and again he does not act.

Ranma feels the excitement fading away. And with it fades her smile.

She shoves once more, this time a quick palm-strike into Dirk's chest. He flies across the alley, thumping against the opposite wall, and sliding to the ground. Clutching his chest, he looks up at her from the floor. "Why?" he gasps out guttural, rasping. Ranma watches him, a sullen frown on her lips, hoping he'll get up and attack. But he does not.

She turns to gaze about. But no one moves. No one delights her with a new assault. Her eyes catch the fourth boy, Billy, who still lies in pain on the ground. She trots over to him. Experimentally, she nudges him a few times with her foot, but all he does is whimper and curl up tightly.

Ranma sighs, unhappy that it is already over. Then she casts her eyes to the brightening sky. A smile appears. That's right; today is her first day of school! Once again the redhead bounces lightly on her toes, boredom banished in the excitement of a new day. Knowing it's long past time to start breakfast, she gives the boys a sidelong glance and then quickly hops away, rebounding off a brick wall and returning to the rooftops.

-oOo-

"Cum eruditio ventis elatum aures, volimus."

The words are emblazoned upon a great wrought-iron gate that guards entry to the much esteemed grounds of Headwings. Beyond the gate, the road stretches onwards, paved in cobblestone reds, whites, browns, and blacks in no particular pattern. To either side are tall trees half-filled with leaves in seasonal reds and yellows. Their musty smell drifts through the air, carried by a chilly breeze.

A few black birds peek downwards from their perches, occasionally chirping but mostly remaining quiet. They watch as an old car approaches the gate, winding up the hill towards the school, gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

"Ranma," Elinore says, "you do understand that you shall need to speak during the interview and tests prior to enrollment and that you must speak on occasion during class, do you not?"

Ranma nods absently, gazing out the window and watching the scenery fly by.

Elinore takes her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her daughter, who continues to look away. Then she sighs in exasperation and returns to driving.

Ranma turns to the front again. Her eyes dilate a bit and she releases a sharp gasp of mirth, a small laugh, immediately contained. She reads the words written around the gate once more. _With knowledge the wind beneath our ears, we fly!_ The words seem fitting for an academy with the name _Headwings. _

Elinore gasps and gazes again at her daughter, grinning widely. "You laughed! You finally laughed! This is wonderful! I must tell Gareth!" She clasps her hands in front of her, still staring at the girl.

Her daughter looks at her pointedly, then slowly raises one hand and jabs a finger twice towards the road.

"Eep!" Elinore grabs the wheel, hits the break, and swerves back into the proper lane just in time to avoid an oncoming car. The driver of the opposite car angrily shakes an arm through her window as she drives past.

Ranma returns her gaze to the scenery outside. But, after a moment, her mouth twitches a little, then broadens into a wide smile. Once again she feels that warm, glowing passion within her. And it wells up from deep inside... at first a trickle of chuckles, rising in depth and volume into gales of guffaws.

Elinore cringes.

A flock of black birds squawk and flee, beating wings and shaking tree, as the car rumbles beneath the gate.

_... convulsing chest, contorted face, a hundred tiny screams... a beautiful insanity... _

The laughter dies.

Across the vast school grounds of Headwings, the school bell rings.


	3. Ashes

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

**Started: **September 14, 2004

**Last Update:** January 4, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**Chapter Two: Ashes**

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And eat men like air  
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

-oOo-

The door opens and Elinore turns to see who enters. A couple of hours of twiddling her thumbs and reading _Dentistry_ was enough force even Elinore to relax her formal bearing, even though she happens to be sitting in the main Headwing's office.

"Ah good, Mr. Ogden. May I see your results?" the stern, old headmistress asks.

Mr. Ogden is handsome, well-built, young man, which is a little unusual at the all-girls school. The man steps forward, adjusting his glasses, and places a folder upon the headmistress's desk. His eyes flicker briefly to Elinore, and he gives her the slightest quirk of the lips.

Elinore postulates that the female teachers of the school hired him as a bit of eye candy, and lets her own eyes eat their fill once he looks away. Then she turns to watch the headmistress.

The severe woman flips through the pages offered. While her eyes peruse the documents she asks, "And what is your opinion of Ranma's tests?"

"She did surprisingly well, especially given the rocky start. The girl seems to excel in mathematics and science. Her results are nothing short of spectacular in the former; she is at least four years ahead of her fellow students, maybe more."

The headmistress nods, her eyes focusing on the papers. Elinore blinks in surprise at her daughter's success. Given two years in an asylum it is difficult to believe that Ranma would actually be ahead of her fellow students. Then again, her new little girl seems to be full of surprises.

"However, her reading skills are at least a year behind, she has large gaps in her vocabulary, and her spelling and handwriting are atrocious. That, however, is to be expected given that English seems to be her second language," Mr. Ogden continues.

The elderly woman frowns slightly and shifts her eyes to Elinore questioningly. Elinore offers a subtle, yet uninformative smile. Eyes burrow into Elinore for a moment then refocus upon Mr. Ogden. "I see... It seems that she has written some of her answers in her preferred language. Do you think her hold on English will be a problem?"

Mr. Ogden shakes his head. "Her spoken English is very good for a girl her age, at least once you get her talking... She doesn't seem shy so much as she simply doesn't like speaking." The man pauses in contemplation, then shakes his head once more before adding, "Well, it's not like we're short on the talkative sort. I believe her literacy is of greatest concern."

The headmistress nods, pausing in thought. Finally she closes the folder and speaks, "What do you think Mr. Ogden?"

"I believe she will make an excellent addition to the school. However, I would suggest a tutor or some remedial classes to bring her literacy level up to par."

"Thank you Mr. Ogden. You may leave. Find a class for the child, and see what you can do about placing her in an advanced math course." As the man nods and exits, the stern woman fixes Elinore with a sharp gaze. "It seems that your daughter will be joining us. If possible I think it would be best if she started today. Do you have any objections, Mrs. Granger?"

"No. Not at all," Elinore says with a smile.

"Good good, I trust you know when classes complete?"

"Of course," Elinore replies. She stands and collects her purse from the ground.

"Well then, good day to you Mrs. Granger."

"Good day to you as well."

-oOo-

After giving Mr. Ogden a final glance, Ranma trots into the room. The teacher, a plump woman about the same age as Elinore, immediately glances up from the chalk board and offers Ranma a smile. Ranma doesn't return it. Instead, Ranma looks around the room, eyes curious and body humming with vibrant energy.

The room is filled with children, all of them girls around her own age. Most watch her silently, their gazes fixed. Others take advantage of the opportunity to whisper amongst themselves. Each sits behind a small desk facing the front of the room where the teacher stands. There, on the chalk board, she has written a simple sentence.

The letters squirm slightly in Ranma's eyes, but a blink later they are still. "A child ran swiftly to the tree." That is how they read. The teacher has underlined the word _child_. Just below on its own hangs the word _subject_, declaring the nature of the underlined word.

"Class I would like you to welcome our new student, Ranma Granger. I'm told she's a little shy, so please do your best to welcome her," the teacher announces to the girls. She gestures for Ranma to come closer. After a moment the redhead does so, and the woman places a gentle hand on the girl's shoulders and turns her to face the class.

"Now, Ranma, would you like to introduce yourself?" the teacher asks warmly.

Ranma pulls away from the woman and tugs uncomfortably at the dress that Elinore stuck her in. It is Hermione's old uniform, a pleated sight of blue and white with long blue sleeves and skirt, which falls below her knees. It doesn't quite feel right. While she fiddles, the eyes of the class dig into her. She raises her own to meet them. What is a good introduction? _Konichiwa, Ranma desu. _ She considers her words and then she speaks, forging each word with difficulty. "Hello. I am... Ranma."

The teacher gives her a sidelong glance, and her smile fades subtly, but retains its warmth. The audience continues to stare at her impassively.

Ranma gazes at her audience, deciding whether her introduction wasn't enough. After a moment she relents and adds, "_Watashi no ketsu eki gata wa _B_ desu." _Ranma swallows a grimace as the words writhe about, squirming like worms in her mouth before finding their way out, leaving behind the taste of ash. "My blood-type is _B_."

This elicits a few hushed whispers and a small giggle. A chair squeaks as a they shift in their seats.

What's left of the teacher's strained smile vanishes. She says tersely, "If you are all done, there is a seat available in the third row at the back. My name is Mrs. Pearson. For now just pay attention; we'll get you some books soon enough. Lunch will be in about an hour."

Ranma nods and heads to her seat. The nearby girls watch her pass. Some give smiles of welcome, others pay her no mind at all. A few offer haughty glances, but when she gazes back the offending eyes drop and turn away.

Ranma spends the next hour attempting to puzzle out what the teacher is doing. She can understand it, almost recognize it, in an odd manner, but the knowledge seems distant.

"All right class, it's time for lunch," Mrs. Pearson finally says, concluding the lesson.

The words break Ranma's musings. Perking up at the thought of food, she bounces energetically to her feet. For a moment she watches as the girls around her break into speech, conversations merging into a generic feminine babble as they move to the doorway. After a second, unsure where to go without a little direction, Ranma follows her class and quickly gets lost among the throng of girls swarming from the other classrooms into the hall.

But at least they are all headed in the same direction.

A few minutes later, in the Headwing's mess hall, Ranma escapes the crowd of girls. She quickly discovers that ahead of her is another bottleneck as the students squeeze into the kitchens to pick up some food then shuffle through the few payment lines, all the while talking loudly to one another as each girl tries to make herself heard over the resulting din.

That way lies lunch, Ranma decides. She considers jumping over their heads, but then remembers some practical advice from Gareth over this morning's breakfast: _Try not to stand out too much. Don't jump over people's heads, don't change into a boy, and especially don't provoke any fights or hurt anyone. Be nice. Try to make friends, and try to have fun. It will be easier if people aren't scared of you._ He had ruffled her hair a bit and told her, "Good luck," before giving her a quick hug on the way out.

She really likes his hugs, burying herself deep in his sweaters and feeling his strong arms wrap tightly around her torso. She craves the affection more than anything.

Except, maybe, food.

Smiling fondly at the memory she decides to try his advice by _not_ jumping over their heads. Instead she starts weaving expertly through the throng towards the kitchens. A few minutes later, amid enraged shouts of "Hey! No cuts!" and "What do you think you're doing?" she swerves between the taller girls and back into the mess hall, precariously balancing a tray of food in each hand and one on her head.

She spots an empty table and carefully begins to set her trays down when-

"Hello!" a bright, cheerful voice exclaims from behind.

Ranma resists the urge to whirl around. Not only had Dickson told her it scares him when she does stuff like that, but she'd also lose the precious contents of her trays with such a sudden maneuver. Instead she turns slowly, and finds herself looking up into a pair of deep blue eyes behind a cute little nose. The girl leans closer as if getting a good look at Ranma. Then, straightening up, she offers a wide grin.

"Here, let me help with that!" the girl says, grabbing the tray from Ranma's head and setting it on the table. "My name's Kathryn. I usually sit here. Ooh! Lasagna! My favorite. Mind if I have a bite?" she asks enthusiastically.

_Is it 'yes' to say I mind or 'no' to say she can't have any? _Ranma, unsure of how to answer, simply nods.

"Thanks! I owe you one," says Kathryn as she sits down and starts eating the lasagna. She certainly takes more than a bite.

Ranma blinks a few times before setting her remaining trays within reach. She eyes the rapidly disappearing lasagna for a few seconds. Then she shrugs and begins eating.

After downing her milk, Kathryn gasps out, "That was great! I hate dealing with those crowds. Say, you must be new here. We don't see too many new faces in Headwings, especially in the middle of the year. You just start?"

Ranma nods quietly, as she grabs another bite from her lunch tray.

Kathryn finally turns from her tray to look at the girl. "Wow, you eat a lot. But you don't talk much. That's fine; Audrey says I talk enough for everyone. I think we'll get along just fine!" Kathryn flashes a brilliant smile at the girl. "Wanna be friends?"

Ranma pauses, fork halfway to her mouth, and casts a cautious look at Kathryn, searching for any hint of insincerity. After a moment, Ranma sets the fork down and turns a smile to the taller girl. Then the redhead nods once, resolutely.

Kathryn's smile breaks into a grin.

"Hey, Kate. Who's this? I brought your fav- Oh. I see you've already eaten," says a mousy girl as she approaches the table struggling to carry two trays and a book.

"Ah... heh. Well, I sort of hijacked part of her meal," Kathryn answers, jerking a thumb at Ranma. "You can just give her mine. Oh, and... this is my best friend, Audrey. I hope you can be her friend, too. Err... what is your name, anyways?" Kathryn grins dumbly and scratches her neck.

Ranma examines Audrey briefly. She has hazelnut eyes and long brown hair in a thick braid. The shape of her jaw and those little ears poking through her hair give her that cute but somewhat mousy look.

In return, Audrey examines Ranma. Her eyes widen as she sees two nearly empty trays sitting in front of the girl.

"You must be really hungry. You going through a growth spurt?" Audrey says finally, setting the tray of lasagna near Ranma. Then Audrey sits down and silently takes a bite from her own meal.

Ranma doesn't answer, instead dragging the tray closer to herself with a finger while staring at it with a predatory grin.

For a moment, the awkward silence between the children sings loudly over the cafeteria's clamor.

"Eh... heh," starts Kathryn elegantly.

"Why don't we each say a little something about ourselves," suggests Audrey. "I'm Audrey Knight, age ten. My favorite thing is reading," she says, briefly displaying her book to Ranma.

"I'm Kathryn Keynes, but all my friends call me Kate, so you can call me Kate. I like drawing and fishing and bicycling and computers and movies and music and... but my favorite thing is definitely computers! ... Or maybe drawing, but I'm really excited about computers! Oh, yeah, I'm ten too, but I'll be turning eleven next week. And I already know what I'm getting for my birthday! My dad got me a brand-new computer!"

Audrey groans audibly.

Kathryn continues, "It just arrived, and my dad says I can't unwrap it until my birthday, but I already know what it is anyway! It's a top-of-the-line machine with a twenty megahertz four-eighty-six processor, four megabytes RAM, and even an eighty megabyte hard drive!" The girl's dark blue eyes glow fervently as she speaks.

Ranma shifts backwards as she weathers the torrent of nonsensical words.

"You're scaring her," says Audrey, amused.

"I'm not scared!" retorts Ranma suddenly. Once again she feels the words twist unpleasantly in her mouth from her native tongue into British English, and once again they leave behind that awful ashen aftertaste. Ranma grimaces, and swishes a little milk in her mouth, but the taste lingers. Then she sighs and decides to deal with it. "I'm Ranma Sao-... Granger, age, um..., nine."

"Wow! She talks!" Katherine exclaims after a moment.

"Of course she talks. So, Ranma Sao Granger, what sort of things interest you?" asks Audrey.

_'Sao-.' _Ranma blinks, wondering where that came from. She almost regrets stopping it... perhaps a scrap of her past, locked away in muscle memory? Even though it rolled off the tongue like it was natural, the rest of her doesn't remember anything starting with '_Sao-'_ at all.

"Just Ranma, please. ... I don't know much about computers and books."

Kathryn interrupts, "That's okay! We can teach you, if you want. But even if you don't like them we can still be friends, right? So tell us what you do like."

Ranma stares at Kathryn for a few seconds, then slowly smiles. "I like martial arts and," Ranma blushes, "I sorta like cooking."

Audrey giggles a bit before stifling it with a hand. "You like karate and cooking, and you're embarrassed about the cooking. You sound like a real tomboy."

Ranma pauses, then grins and nods.

Kathryn smiles. "Well, it's good you admit it. But, even if you're a tomboy, why are you embarrassed about liking to cook?" she asks. "My dad loves cooking. You should come over and eat with us sometime! I'm sure he'd be happy to let you help cook. Audrey's grandmother is also pretty good. She makes an outstanding rhubarb pie, and I know she'd love to teach it to you. Neither Audrey nor I can cook very well, so she hasn't been able to teach it to us. So what do you think? Wanna come?"

Ranma nods once more, resolutely.

For a while the three girls sit in silence. Audrey and Ranma eat a few bites of their meals.

"... I think I'd like to welcome you as a friend, too," says Audrey cautiously. She sticks her hand out for Ranma to grasp. "Friends?"

Ranma's eyes widen, her smile glows, and she grasps the hand greedily, pulling it to her chest with both of her smaller hands holding Audrey's larger one.

Audrey winces as she stumbles forward under the younger girl's strength. Then she forces a smile as she disengages her hand from Ranma's. "You're very strong," she says after a moment, massaging her thumb.

Ranma notices the strain in the smile and lowers her eyes, looking away. "Sorry..."

"It's okay," says Kathryn, wrapping an arm around the redhead's shoulders. "Isn't it Audrey?" she adds, casting a glare in her best friend's direction.

Audrey hesitates still nursing her hand, then says, "Yes, of course it is." Audrey wraps one of the girl's small hands within her own. "I am sure it was just an accident, so you don't need to worry."

Slowly Ranma looks up at Audrey and Kathryn. She offers a tenuous smile, her bright blue orbs shrouded by long strands of red hair. In irritation, and with a brief scowl, Ranma reaches up and swats the red locks to the side.

Audrey lets out a small giggle. "Here..." she says, trailing off with a look of determination on her face. She moves around to Ranma's back and her hands begin deftly slipping through the red hair. "You should braid it like I do. That way it won't get in your eyes," Audrey offers as she continues her work. Then she hits a snag... or, more accurately, several of them.

Ranma scowls as her head jerks painfully to the side several times, then squirms about trying to see what Audrey is doing.

Audrey pauses as the Ranma's head shifts in her hands. "You have quite a few snarls in your hair. It isn't right, not taking care of beautiful hair like this..." For a while longer, Audrey continues running her fingers run through the red strands, dismantling tangles, and Ranma squirms a bit more. "Do you want me to braid it?"

Ranma pauses, then eventually nods. "... Yes, please," she adds. She works to recall those words in English and is rewarded as they fly from her mouth without twisting themselves into knots, leaving behind no ashen aftertaste.

"Then sit down and don't move your head. You'll mess me up," Audrey orders brusquely before resuming activity.

Kathryn sighs as she watches Audrey quickly work Ranma's hair into a braid. "She is so good at that. I can never figure out how to braid my hair."

"That's probably because you don't have enough hair to braid, Kate."

Kathryn runs a hand through her own short-cropped dirty-blond hair, then sighs once more, forlorn.

"There. Done," Audrey announces, releasing Ranma's head.

Ranma's reaches back, exploring what was done. Her hair is braided deeply to the top of her head, and the braid itself is long and thick, reaching just past her waist, where it is tied off with a small bit of white ribbon. Having her hair in a braid feels strangely comfortable.

"Do you like it?" Audrey asks as Ranma examines the braid by dangling it in front of her.

Ranma nods, then turns a bright smile on Audrey. "... Thanks. I... like it."

Audrey grins, satisfied.

"It also makes you look sooo cute! You should grow it even longer!" Kathryn adds.

Ranma shrinks into herself slightly, embarrassed. Still the attention feels good.

After a while, Ranma perks up, watching the two as they begin to engage in a little banter. What little food remains on her trays is forgotten. Friends... It feels good to have friends.

-oOo-

It was a day in late November when Mrs. Pearson popped the question.

"Okay, class. It's really nice out today, and we can't look forward to any more days like this before Winter settles in. What would you say to an extra-long recess?" she had asked.

This was, of course, no question.

Shortly thereafter, the girls of Mrs. Pearson's class, and even plump Mrs. Pearson herself, are chatting in the Autumn grounds of Headwings academy. A gentle breeze carries warmth, the scent of grass, and fallen leaves. Yet still there is a touch of chill struggling to survive the rising morning sun within the shadows of the trees.

Ranma takes a minute to inhale deeply, slowly, enjoying the potpourri of scents and sensations, the kiss of sun and air's caress upon her face. Ranma relaxes, absorbing all.

It was something Kathryn taught her to do one day when she was taking her drawing seriously. It was also something Ranma had come to enjoy immensely, at least when the moment is right. However, this particular moment is interrupted as a pair of girls walk behind Ranma, jabbering incessantly. Ranma sighs and turns minutely to look without staring at them.

"I heard a brilliant story earlier today," says a girl Ranma recognizes as April to her friend, June.

"What of it?" replies June, sounding uninterested.

"If you aren't really interested, I'll just have to find someone else to tell," says April, before continuing regardless. "Anyhow, I heard from my friend in music class who knows a girl from her Summer swimming class who's cousin knows this girl called Marissa, at least that is what I think her name is... anyway Marissa's cousin was saved by an angel!"

"Reeeaaally? Did it have wings?" June teases.

"Hey, if you don't want to hear it -" April starts.

"- you'll tell it to me anyway," June finishes. She sighs. "This had better be good."

"It is good, thank you very much. Apparently, this handsome guy named William was getting kicked and beat by a gang of three evil school bullies. They had surrounded him to keep him from escaping."

June raises her brow. "What did William do that so upset these 'evil bullies'?"

April shrugs. "They're evil bullies, so they were being evil and bullying. They were laughing as they tortured the poor guy. But, and this is important, not all the bullies were equally vicious. The cruelest, meanest bully just kept hitting William. Even when William was on the ground, coughing up blood, that bully just kept on kicking William over and over in the face and belly and even in the bollocks, all the while howling with laughter."

June cringes. "That sounds painful."

April ignores June's commentary and and continues, "The second bully also punched and kicked William, but stopped after William was down. After William was on the ground, the bully started psycho-logy, psycho-, err... mentally torturing William by insulting him and tearing up William's homework and intimation."

"That's 'psychologically', and I hope you meant 'intimidation'," corrects June.

"Thanks. 'Psycho-logic-ally.' 'In-timi-dation.' I think I have it now.

"Well, the third bully was a wimp. Instead of hitting William, he was busy stealing anything valuable from William's backpack, like homework they could copy before class and lunch money and William's calculator. He also encouraged his companions, cheering them on. But he also told the first bully to not hit William in the face, because William can't hide injuries to his face and would need to tell teachers. I don't really understand... why wouldn't William tell even if he wasn't hit in the face?" asks April.

June shrugs. "Boys are weird like that. Maybe they could intimidate him to keep him from talking."

April considers that for a moment, then nods. "Anyhow, William was lying there in a pool of his own blood, feeling like he was about to die. He didn't want to die, so he prayed to be saved. He prayed for justice. He prayed for _revenge_."

At this point April pauses dramatically.

"And?" asks June, yawning.

April scowls. "You're no fun at all! Well, his prayers were answered. An angel descended from the very heavens, her blood-red hair waving in the wind and enormous, white wings-"

"You just added that, didn't you?" June accuses.

April glares at her friend then continues, "and enormous, white, _feathery_ wings. The evil bullies backed away fearfully, but she had no mercy. The angel punished them all.

"The meanest, cruelest first bully she struck down with her own fists and feet, just as the bully had done to William. She gave him a chance to fight back, but as an angel she was faster and stronger than the boy. And after the bully was defeated and on the floor, she kicked him once more while he was down, in the face, shattering his jaw, snapping his neck, and killing the boy instantly."

June's eyes widen and she listens with rapt attention. "Now this is getting interesting," she mutters.

April grins at her friend. "She also fought the second bully while he was still standing and could fight back, but instead of killing him when he was down, the angel cast a spell to lock his mind forever within a private hell. Even today his mind is trapped, suffering his own worst 'psychological' tortures, while his body is in a coma in some hospital."

"How do you know his mind is trapped in his own private hell if he's in a coma and can't tell us about it?" asks June.

April growls, "Hey! I'm telling the story, so that's what happened! Anyhow, the final bully, who had been stealing from William's backpack and encouraging his friends, was hardly touched by the angel at all. She hit him, breaking a few of his ribs, but that was about it. Yet even in this, justice and vengeance were served, for this boy who had been stealing from William's bag had his two best friends stolen from him. And when the police arrived, he was still too injured to escape, so this bully who had been most afraid of getting caught was caught anyway."

Silence reigns for a moment. Finally, June asks, "And then?"

April shrugs and grins, "I don't know. That's where the story ends. But it was a good story, wasn't it?"

June nods slowly before saying, "That was a fun story, but that was a stupid ending. It needs something more... Maybe something about William feeling guilty or being careful what you wish for. ... But it doesn't sound like an angel if you ask me. Angels aren't supposed to be merciless and vicious. They're supposed to play harps in the clouds and be nice."

"You think? Maybe it was a war angel," April mumbles thoughtfully.

"... Or maybe an Old Testament angel," June adds with a wry grin.

April frowns, trying to figure out that comment for a few seconds before intelligently replying, "Huh?" Then she claps her hands together and posits, "I know! A demon! If it was a demon it would all make sense... William must have scrawled demon-summoning sigils in his own blood after he was injured!" April nods to herself. "I'll have to let everyone know they have it wrong."

"And once more the rumor mill grinds a few grains of truth into a pound of cake," June mutters. "Anyhow, what would you say to a little game of football?" she asks. "I'll even the score this time."

"You lost to me in that test yesterday. You lost to me in that netball game last PE class. And you think you can beat me in a game of football?" April asks snidely, although her eyes twinkle with mirth. "Ha. You don't stand a chance."

"You just keep flapping your gap when we're on the field. Go get your team. You'll see who wins this one," June responds, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Both girls then immediately take off to find some of the more athletic girls for their respective teams.

After they leave, Ranma turns away from the girls and begins stretching on her own, preparing to run through a kata she had been designing for her martial arts style, and wishing she could go visit Kathryn and Audrey. However, her two best friends are both a year ahead of her, and apparently Mrs. Pearson's idea about an extra recess isn't very popular among the faculty. Her class is out there alone.

Ranma stands up, about to start the kata, when -

"Ranma? That's your name, right? I'm still a member short. Will you please join my team?"

Ranma turns to see June leaning against a tree, offering a nervous smile.

"You're asking HER on your team?" April asks, sneering a bit as she approaches . "I've heard all sorts of weird things about her. I've heard she's best friends with a bookworm and a computer geek from sixth year. Marcy heard from her older sister's friend that she is in a numeracy course at the secondary school _five years_ ahead of us. And nobody has _ever_ seen her in PE class or recess. She's a... a little swot, that's what!"

Ranma's eyes narrow and she glowers at April, unable to come up with a suitably scathing reply even in Japanese. April manages to ignore her penetrating stare by simply not noticing it; April's attention is focused on June.

"Then why do you object to me asking her onto _my_ team?" asks June.

April bites her lip, unable to answer.

June crosses her arms, steadfast. "She's more athletic than she looks. You did see her stretching earlier, didn't you? She's very limber and has great muscle tone. And you know she's coordinated."

"Fine then! I'll just go find someone else," April shouts as she stalks off.

Ranma relaxes and gazes at June again, as if seeing her in a new light.

June chuckles and turns to Ranma. "Don't be bothered by what she said. I think she was coming to ask you and wanted to drive me away; I know she's seen you weaving through those lunch lines before. We both have. Anyhow, want to play?"

Ranma nods slowly.

"So why don't you go to PE class or recess?" June asks as casually as she starts leading Ranma to the rest of the team.

Ranma follows June, but doesn't answer the question.

"Oh, sorry, I guess, if it isn't something you want to talk about. ... I know you don't talk much."

Ranma follows a little further before answering, "I... have another class: reading, writing, and vo-... voca-... words. English is not my first ... language. I'm getting better, though. Afterwards, I go to the other school for math and science." Ranma smiles smugly at this last bit.

June smirks. "The word you're looking for is 'vocabulary', sis. It's good for my ego to correct a genius. Anyhow, welcome to the team." June gestures to another three girls, who in turn are gazing at Ranma with appraising eyes.

It isn't long before the April and June are snarling playfully at each other across the lines of battle. Mrs. Pearson herself decided to referee, and managed to find a shrill whistle. Several other girls stand about to watch the bout, a small scrimmage with five players per side. Ranma takes her position as one of the two defenders of her goal; the other girls were unwilling to give an unproven player much faith.

The whistle blows. The game begins.

Minutes later, Ranma watches impatiently as June once again launches the ball towards the goal, only to have it blocked with a proficient head butt from April. She itches to run in, take the ball, and pound it into the goal, but she knows that she can't join the action without getting an offsides call. Mrs. Pearson has quickly proven herself to be an aggressive referee even though she doesn't fully comprehend the rules of the game; she thinks "offsides" is when the defenders cross the halfway line.

So instead Ranma must wait for the action to come to her.

Ranma doesn't find it strange at all that she just _knows_ many of the rules to this particular game. It's the same story as with many other things... except computers. A week ago Kathryn had sat Ranma down in front of her new computer, jabbering on and on about all one could do with it all the while demonstrating little programs she could run using a nasty interface called 'DOS' through a clunky device called a 'keyboard'. Ranma quickly became lost. Fortunately, she was saved when Kathryn's father, with a knowing glint in his eyes, walked in asking Ranma if she would like to help cook.

She had jumped at the opportunity and learned to make a delicious dish of lasagna.

In the present Ranma jumps again, this time in the more literal sense, when she looks up from her reminiscing and sees April barreling towards her with the ball.

April controls the ball tightly with a rapid succession of light taps from her toes, and June is hot on her heels. Ranma's mouth slowly widens into a wicked shark-like grin; April may be good, but Ranma knows herself to be far better. Ranma steps to intercept.

April feints to the left and draws the ball to the right. The effort is meaningless; Ranma sees right through the feint as she closes the distance in an instant. Her leg snaps forward griping the ball beneath the front of her foot. Realizing that Ranma has seized control, April tries to bat it away, but the red head rolls the ball back faster, leaving the girl only air to swing at. Then, before Ranma's opponent can make another move, Ranma casually sets her foot back down on the ground scooping the ball up on top of her toe and flipping it into the air. With light kick she then sends it out over both April's and June's heads toward another of her own team's forwards.

April and June watch with stunned looks, eyes locked onto the ball. April turns and gives Ranma a dirty look. June offers a wicked grin. Then, enough time wasted, they rush away, June calling back, "Hey, you're pretty good."

Ranma grins at the compliment. She wants to chase after them and join in on the fun, but doesn't dare challenge Mrs. Pearson's poor excuse for refereeing. Instead she watches silently as the girls ahead fight to bring the ball toward the goal and score.

A chill breeze whips across the meadow. A shadow sweeps across the field before the sunlight returns.

April and June rejoin the battle. They fight fiercely for control, forcing the other girls away in their fury. A few hang back tenuously, but the rest, unwilling to surrender, rejoin the squabble. Mrs. Pearson's whistle cries shrill, and the pudgy teacher jogs, wheezing, to the tight group.

A second dark cloud sweeps across the sun. The field fills with an uneasy gray light. Something shifts to Ranma's right. The redhead turns her head to look, but it is just a girl digging with her foot.

Shifting uncomfortably in the sudden chill, Ranma gazes at the ball, waiting for it to return to play. June and April argue with Mrs. Pearson, their voices blending in the distance.

... whispers speaking with insistence ...

An edge of fear grows within; the shadows stretch long and thin.

An icy wind claws with strength. The whistle blows. The game resumes for a length. April forces the ball still nearer. Shadows grow starker, clearer. The space between them shrinks in size. Still further back come her team's cries. Ranma steps to take the ball.

The sun is blocked by a cloud within a slice of frozen time. The silence speaks aloud, in rhyme, yet not a word is heard.

The ball's form shifts, changes, drifts into a decapitated head. Its eyes glare, declaring through shattered glasses that it's HER fault that he's dead. Its face twists in terrible rictus, lips forever frozen in silence, unable to speak. Yet whispers abound as it rolls across the ground, head over neck, ear over ear... It's cold out here. It's cold in the shadows, its silence accuses. This bandanna doesn't protect me when I'm not in the sun. Its YOUR fault; you should have stayed. Instead you left me to the shade, betrayed, ignored me for your own crusade, with my life the cost.

And now you're lost.

The head halts at her feet and stares up at her with dead eyes and a fixed grimace.

"_Oyaji,"_ Ranma gasps, shivering, a hand at her mouth and fear in her eyes.

Then its form twists once again. The pupils roll upwards, out of sight, leaving only orbs of white. The twin orbs fall back into shadowed pits, and darkness spills from within. The mouth opens, and a low murmur joins a sudden blast of cold wind, forming ancient words that float away, faintly heard yet lost. From shadowed eyes and gaping maw spill dark, phantom tendrils writhing sickly.

Stretching, swaying to and fro, questing for her as they grow, then twisting quickly through the air, these claws of shadow and despair... find their mark. They strike her head, her eyes, her mind. They leave her in the dark and blind. She feels them pierce her inner shrine, reaching deep into her soul.

Careless and malign, they pull...

... Revealing memories left behind, peeling them as core from rind, only to find memories once blocked to bind a darkness left of yore. Her father once stood fast and strong, fighting shadows that don't belong... in this world, for shadows are creatures of borders: darkness and light, day and night, life and death, stillness and breath, silence and screams, reality... dreams. They are strongest both at dusk and dawn, with the rising and the setting sun, and under a full moon, when shadows are longest and deepest.

Soon this might not be the case; there are great plans for the shadow race.

She knows it deep within her heart, since shadows whisper in the dark. "Join us," they say, "Set us free! And our power yours shall be." They seek escape their imprisoned lands, with manifest destiny to expand.

And they almost succeeded with the help of a foolish little troll who chose to discipline Ranma – the whelp – who while on panty patrol, returned the darlings Happosai stole in a panty raid on the girls of a Victoria's Secret fashion parade. The master's wrath could not be deterred. Vengeance set him on his path, and this is where he erred: He acquired an ancient, evil book, and before he stopped to think or look, he read the words beheld within, when as if it were some kami's whim, he sneezed loudly and messily, too; "Klaatu, Verata, Nic-a-ah-AH-CHOO!"

A portal to another realm... Ranma stole the book and tried to shut it down, but had no luck; the effort was naught. The pages were stuck with Happosai's snot. A fight begins with immortal kin, that when knocked down just rose again, and just when hope had passed... the largest came through last. Dozens of shades escaped through the gate held fast by the greatest shadow of them all. During the ensuing brawl: Gosunkugi in a thrall; Happosai crashed through a wall; Genma knocked Gosunkugi out; Oyaji! Get back here! ... ungrateful lout!

With the great shadow's attention all on him, she pushed it back.

It pulled her in.

Falling... falling... she feels it crawling into her hazy mind, a shadow stretching deep, slowly as it creeps, leaving her behind. She feels it tearing her spirit, grabbing her body and trying to wear it, deep inside her soul, vainly as it pulls at nothing... a void, a greater abyss hidden within. Ranma starts whispering. _Who are you? What do you want? _ I am she who dances between patches of sunlight. I want you to join us. Help us! Become our goddess, our anchor in light, our leader at night, a mighty warrior to aid in our fight. We're falling! We're failing! Our cause is ailing. A dark hunter gives chase, and he has companions. _ In the madness of many you'll find the key. In dreams of the great, you'll find the gate. You have your help. Now leave this place. NOW! THIS IS MY MIND! GET OUT!_

At a harried pace the shadow races, leaving on the fastest route. The ball rockets away- BLAM! A resounding crash, a dark flash; the shadow is gone.

Then Ranma falls, breath quickened, stomach sickened, and she feels a chill course through her body, only to be swallowed by the greater abyss hidden within as it sinks once more below consciousness.

Ranma lies on the ground for a short while, slowly realizing that the cold shadows have passed and aren't returning, and the sun is shining normally once again, before she sits up and opens her eyes.

Blinking Ranma looks in confusion about her. She sees April lying on the ground several meters away, hurt and crying silently, with a half-dozen girls surrounding her to give comfort. What happened to her?

Mrs. Pearson's whistle howls. "Go to Ogden's office, young lady, and wait there until I arrive," she snaps with a scowl. Then her face falls, worn and weary. After April is helped slowly to her feet, in a daze, the teacher directs her from the field.

June sends an accusing glare at Ranma before following.

A ball of black and white staggers across the green, shedding a few spots of red.

-oOo-

THUNK!

A heavily modified, short, double-barreled, break-action shotgun with an absurdly large bore and a hefty wooden stock drops from a gloved hand and lands unceremoniously upon a large wooden table. "That thing is _hell_ on the wrist!" declares the young man as he removes his gloves. He rolls his wrists about and they make a series of popping noises, then he sighs and sits at the bench, dropping his head into his hands. Bags under his eyes betray his weariness.

"Hell on the wrist, eh?" asks another man walking in with a wicked grin, eyes twinkling with mirth. He is much older looking, with crinkly skin and a completely bald head with the exception of bushy white eyebrows and tattoos of odd design. His voice is high and craggy, yet cheerful. All this is somewhat at odds with the fact that he's holding his own severely injured and mangled arm. It's even more at odds with the fact that said arm is no longer attached to his body. He waves it around, causing the hand of the severed arm fall upon the younger man's head. "Hell on the _wrist_ hardly seems to be a problem, Ghost."

"Hey! Stop it! That's just sick, Erwin!" Ghost shouts, jumping out of his seat and swiftly backing away from the freely swaying arm.

Erwin laughs at Ghost's plight, still teasing him with the detached arm. "Hell on the wrist it may be, but that's a lesser hell."

"Can't say I disagree there," interjects a stocky man with a scruffy beard and overalls, looking up from the position he occupies on the opposite side of the shop table. He places the oversized handgun he had been meticulously cleaning on the work table, and stares for a moment at his own right hand... which is obviously metal, mechanical, and prosthetic from about the middle of his forearm. He wiggles his metal fingers about and smiles fondly for a moment. Then looks at Ghost, smirks, and says, "I can build a wrist guard for you to help absorb the recoil on that gun, if you need one. I've already got something like it in the works for Lauren."

Ghost shoves Erwin's wayward arm away once more with an annoyed grimace, then smiles at the stocky man. "Thanks, Chad. I'd appreciate that. It must kick at least half my weight, and I can't afford to use it in two hands. I must say... it works _really_ well, though."

"Ain't nothing like a bigger gun to take care of bigger troubles, I always say. I take it you ran into trouble?" Chad asks, glancing at Erwin's arm, which is now flung casually over the bald man's stump of a shoulder.

Erwin whistles a light ditty as he uses his remaining arm to dig through a fridge in the corner, before pulling out a hard lemonade and popping off the lid. "Yes; several bigger troubles," says Erwin before taking a deep swig of the alcoholic beverage. "Ahh! Nothing quite like a Mike's after losing a limb. Anyhow, we can't say the trouble was unexpected... except for that little bit with the girl. Oh, hey! Brook! Would you mind sewing my arm on again?"

The last is asked of a young woman with short, wavy black hair and glasses, wearing a white sweater and a long skirt. She is currently walking down a spiral staircase with an armful of books. "Hi, Hikaru!" she says to Ghost as she bounces into the main room. She turns to Erwin and her light smile transforms into a frown of disgust. "Oh... you lost it again." She sets her books down and rummages through a drawer, asking, "So what happened this time?"

Ghost lifts his head from his hands, offers her a tired smile, and says, "We finally caught up with that shadow-possessed pack of dogs we've been tracking the last four days."

"Oh, good! Lauren will be happy to hear that. Did you manage to destroy them?" asks Brook. Holding thread and needle, she walks over to Erwin, who is already waiting at the table holding his severed arm against his stump.

"Yeah, they're destroyed at least," Ghost grouses.

Brook looks worriedly at Ghost for a moment, and is about to say something when Erwin cuts in.

"The mongrels ambushed us," Erwin says rather jovially. "I had to chase one of those mutts almost two blocks just to get my arm back!"

Ghost drops his head into his arms as Erwin continues.

"We ended up in the outskirts of London, in a rather forested area a little before noon. You know how the shadow-possessed like places that are, well, shady. It turns out we were near that all-girl's school, Headwings."

"Oh, my! The fight didn't go public, did it?" Brook asks.

"Heh. Fortunately, no... although I'm sure Lauren would have liked the free advertising," says Erwin.

"Only if nobody was hurt," calls a tenor voice from above. "Besides, I believe the image of you chasing your arm around would _not_ be good for business." Lauren steps down the stairs dressed in a blouse, business slacks, and leather boots. When she stops at the bottom, her eyes sweep across the four people in the room... stopping on Ghost's tired form. "What's up with Gosunkugi-kun?"

Brook watches as his back rises and falls evenly, then says, "I think he's asleep."

Lauren smiles wanly at the boy, then turns to Erwin. "I want details."

Erwin grins. "How much did we get for this job, anyhow?"

Lauren's eyes light up. "Six thousand pounds," she says ecstatically. "Just because these dogs attacked some rich-girl's horses." Then her eyes darken, voice grim. "But only if you have all the evidence we need."

"Ghost is carrying it, video, photos and all," says Erwin. "He's pretty good with a camera. Anyhow, as I was saying, the mongrels ambushed us. They stepped out of the shadows, then attacked from all sides. Ghost went all ninja on them; he sliced up two right quick with that rapier of his, then he engaged their leader. His rapier didn't work out so well, so he eventually drew that thing and blew a half-pound of cold-iron shot into the beast." He gestures to the gun on the table.

"Nothing says '_I love you_' like a four-gauge at two paces," interjects Chad with a smile.

Erwin flashes the stocky man a grin then continues, "The shadow-possessed hound was torn clean in half, 'cross the abdomen, but it almost managed to pull itself together again. So Ghost blew the creature into mincemeat with his other shot. That hand-cannon of yours knocked Ghost straight onto his arse," he laughs. "Anyhow, I was busy too. I blasted most of the small-fry into oblivion, then played _Erwin a'la carte_ with the last two." He glances at his arm, to which Brook is now strapping a splint with a good bit of duct tape. "I guess I never quite recovered from that evil saber-wielding marionette."

"... never watch _Child's Play_ again," Lauren mutters like a mantra.

"What about that new movie, _Puppet Master_?" Erwin jibes. "I'm looking forward to renting it. What'cha bet those movies are inspired by real life? Anyhow, those two dogs escaped, but the shadow possessing them escaped in a different direction. I, of course, chased those dogs to get my arm back. Ghost pursued the shadow; he tells me it was shadow-stepping like a mad cricket, and it ended up at that school where it attacked a girl's mind."

Brook gasps. "Did he have to destroy her?" she asks.

Erwin shakes his head. "Fortunately, no. It didn't manage to possess her. It was pretty weak at that point. Besides, if what we suspect is true, she'd have to be in much poorer health anyway. But, the way Ghost um... growled it, I'm pretty sure he knows the girl. He was quite angry with himself. He called her '_Ranma_'."

Lauren's eyes widen a bit, but she says nothing. Brook simply looks relieved as she sits next to Gosunkugi.

Erwin gazes at Lauren then adds, "After that, the shadow escaped. Ghost couldn't exactly chase it into the schoolyard, sword in one hand and gun in the other."

Lauren sits down, looking thoughtful. After a long pause, she speaks up. "Well, we've hardly got a hundred-percent record with these shadow creatures. At least this wasn't a total failure; we've met contract. So... Who wants to order-in some Chinese?"

-oOo-

"Do you know exactly how strong your daughter is, Mr. Granger?"

Gareth grins a little sheepishly at the young man sitting behind the desk. Perhaps it is the rather austere lighting, the intensity of the man's voice, or the rather spartan decor, but Gareth feels nervous, as though interrogated before a court.

Finally, Gareth answers, "I've never had it measured exactly, no. She didn't... uh... throw any cars or knock down any walls, did she? Heh. Heh..."

The laugh is rather forced.

"This is no time for jokes, Mr. Granger! A girl was injured."

Gareth's heart drops. He swallows, steels himself, then asks, "How so, Mr. ... ?"

"Forgive me; this is a rather trying situation. I am Sir Samuel Ogden, Deputy Headmaster of Headwings Primary, and heir to Headwings Institute. Please call me Mr. Ogden, and please take a seat."

Gareth sits.

"Earlier today, a student by the name April Jennings was playing a game of football along with your daughter, Ranma. April was injured in a manner that seems to be the fault of your daughter," Mr. Ogden starts.

"The children were under the supervision of their English teacher, Samantha Pearson. Apparently, because of the nice weather, Mrs. Pearson chose to allow the children an extra recess. April and her friend June Irving took advantage of this opportunity to organize a game of football. Mrs. Pearson became referee.

"Mrs. Pearson says that Ranma committed two off-sides fouls and began giving her dirty looks, but June says that Mrs. Pearson doesn't know her football fouls from Peking duck, and I'm inclined to agree with the child because she plays in the local Youth League. Regardless, I'm told your child later intercepted the ball from April and showed what must have been extraordinary control in kicking it back to her team's forward, who quickly scored a goal. Then, according to June, April challenged Ranma again, driving the ball towards your child.

"From that point, things get sketchy, as nobody was close enough to see all the action. What is known is that Ranma moved to intercept the ball, then everybody heard a nasty, loud, resounding collision of football meeting flesh, and April fell back. One student claims April was actually lifted bodily from the ground but nobody else could confirm it."

Mr. Ogden sits back and opens a leather-bound journal. After flipping through it, he elaborates, "The ball struck April's left arm causing a hairline fracture of her humerus. Then it rebounded into her chest, leaving a large, football-shaped bruise. Finally, it either bounced or rolled upwards and struck the bottom of her chin, where it tore some skin and knocked out one of her baby molars. April was unconscious for almost a minute, and claims no memory of the event past deciding to challenge Ranma. The doctors are optimistic about April's recovery; they will give her pain medication for two days and place a cast on her arm."

Ogden closes the journal then adds, "Fortunately, it seems April holds only a minor grudge, claiming she will even the score in rounders."

Gareth sighs with relief. "I'm glad it wasn't more severe," he says. "So what are you going to do?" Gareth looks worried.

"Am I going to expel her?" Mr. Ogden asks as though reading his mind. "According to June, April insulted Ranma before the match. But there is no other evidence that this was done with malicious intent. And April is a skilled player; if she attempted something difficult, it might have escaped even Ranma's control. Or it couldhave merely been a moment of inattention. So, no; I'm not going to expel her. Regardless, to think that your daughter could injure a girl so, by accident, and with a football no less... just imagine what she'd do with a rounders ball. I'm sure you'll understand that I can't risk her injuring others."

Gareth nods glumly.

"Therefore, you'll understand when I ban her from physical education class, school-hosted extracurricular sports, and similar recess activities with the other girls for her remaining time here at Headwings Primary. We can call it medical reasons, or whatever is most convenient. I also want you to give her a lecture on self-control tonight."

Gareth blinks. "That won't be a problem. No suspension or detention?"

Mr. Ogden smiles slyly. "No; I will be giving her a detention assignment that she must work upon here for an extra hour each day until complete. You shall need to schedule to pick her up later. I will have her copy chapters of her history text by hand, until she does so in acceptable cursive handwriting. That should kill two birds with one stone."

Gareth nods in acceptance of the punishment.

"On a more positive note," Mr. Ogden continues, "her literacy tutoring will be finished by the end of term. She is catching up at an astounding rate. It seems all I have to do is say a word and she picks up the meaning. It's like when I study French before a vacation to France; I'm remembering the language rather than learning it."

Gareth relaxes. "A vacation to France sounds good; Elinore and I plan to travel there during our fifteenth anniversary. So... you're the one tutoring her?"

Mr. Ogden nods. "I tutor Ranma on Wednesdays. Another teacher has been tutoring her on Mondays and Fridays. However, one reason I bring this up is that we are currently tutoring her over her physical education classes. Since I'm banning her from those, you and I will need to find another class to fill that time, come January."

"I'm sure we can think of something."

-oOo-

A screeching wail rises and wobbles through the air, then falls. Then it rises once again, a shrill, tortured howl, a shriek of agony tearing woefully at the bleeding ears of those unfortunate enough to hear it.

Kathryn and Audrey cringe, despite their best efforts.

Ranma frowns disgustedly and lowers the bow, ending for a moment the tormented screams from her violin. The cacophony that arose was enough to make even her, the artist of this misery made manifest, grit her teeth. With an exasperated sigh, she sets the instrument back into its case.

"That was pretty good! Really! You play even better than I do!" Kathryn gushes enthusiastically, a painted smile on her face.

"You're not fooling anyone Kate," Audrey says, lowering her book. Then she continues toward Ranma. "Don't worry, you have only had it a couple of days. You'll get better."

The three girls are sitting together on the tall hill overlooking Headwings to one side and a small lake to the other. On a warm spring day it would be a comfortable place; however, a hint of Winter rides the wind. Ranma's coat sheds the chill, but her unprotected hands feel the cold's numbing nibble as she closes the violin case.

"Say, why do you want to play violin anyway? I mean you could do all sorts of fun stuff instead. Like play with computers, or read books, or draw pictures, or- You're pretty athletic. You could play a sport!"

"I can't," Ranma says simply. She shifts a bit on the cold grass before pulling on a pair of woolen mittens. They provide immediate relief from the wind.

Audrey sighs, "Remember. She isn't allowed to play sports or even attend gym for _medical_ reasons." While she speaks, the mousy girl glances at Ranma curiously.

"Oh yeah!" Katheryn exclaims then says more quietly, "Sorry..."

Ranma shrugs then flops on her back, arms spread wide. She stares for a moment at the sky. Roiling, formless clouds above reflect in hazy gray from her blue eyes. She turns her gaze to Kathryn.

The girl brightens immediately. "That still doesn't answer why you're playing the violin!"

"Elinore wants me to," Ranma explains.

"Elinore? Who's that?" asks Katheryn.

Silence ensues for a while before Ranma answers, "Mom." She sits up and brushes a few blades of grass out of her braided red hair. "What book are you reading?" Ranma suddenly asks Audrey.

Audrey sets her book down. "_Through the Looking Glass_."

"What's it about?" Ranma stretches lightly she talks.

"It's about a seven-year-old girl named Alice who steps through a mirror and ends up in a place where everything is twisted and strange. For example, the chessmen walk and talk to one another. It's the sequel to _Alice in Wonderland_, where she falls down a rabbit hole. But mostly it's full of poetry and weird ideas; they're kind of hard to explain..." Audrey starts.

"I like that poem about the Jabberwock!" Kathryn interjects. She waves her arm wildly, as though wielding a sword. "Snicker-snack! Snicker-snack! He left it dead and with its head he went galumphing back! Oh! Now I know what I'll draw!" Kathryn pulls a pad of paper from her bag and opens it to a fresh page.

Audrey offers a weak smile in Kathryn's direction. "I think that was just a little word-play. It's all explained by Humpty Dumpty in a later chapter," she says, but Kathryn is already lost in her work. So Audrey instead looks at Ranma and she lifts the slender volume. "Here. I'll read to you where Tweedledum and Tweedledee talk about the Red King."

Ranma grins and scoots close as Audrey starts reading softly.

(- Begin Block Quote -)

"He's dreaming now, and what do you think he's dreaming about?" asks Tweedledee.

"Nobody can guess that," says Alice.

"Why, about _you_!" Tweedledee exclaims, clapping his hands triumphantly. "And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?"

"Where I am now, of course," replies Alice.

"Not you!" Tweedledee retorts contemptuously. "You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"

"If that there King was to wake," adds Tweedledum, "you'd go out bang! just like a candle!"

"I shouldn't!" Alice exclaims indignantly. "Besides, if _I'm_ only a sort of thing in his dream, what are _you_, I should like to know?"

"Ditto," says Tweedledum.

"Ditto, ditto!" cries Tweedledee.

He shouts this so loud that Alice can't help but saying, "Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well, it's no use _your_ talking about waking him," says Tweedledum, "when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

"I _am_ real!" huffs Alice, beginning to cry.

"You won't make yourself a bit realer by crying," Tweedledee remarks. "There's nothing to cry about."

"If I wasn't real," Alice says, half laughing through her tears, "I shouldn't be able to cry."

"I hope you don't suppose those are _real_ tears?" Tweedledum interrupts in a tone of great contempt.

(- End Block Quote -)

Audrey stops and places the book in her lap. "It makes you wonder if someone is dreaming us. There's a lot of stuff like that. I also like the White Queen's thoughts on punishment. Regardless, I don't believe you'd enjoy reading the story; it starts off with Alice talking to a bunch of cats."

Ranma, suddenly uncomfortable, stands and turns away. Her hands come together just above her belly, her eyes close, and for a moment she sits still. Then she lowers her hands and exhales slowly, warm breath visible in the air. Finally, she seemingly drifts into a simple, low stance.

She starts slowly. Her front leg rises and hovers through the air, smooth and implacable, then lowers. When it touches ground, her other leg floats in a long arc, graceful and precise. Again, it falls, and she falls with it, sinking into a new stance. Her hands push forward in tandem, then she slides towards her hands, back to her center.

She exhales slowly once again. The mist curls about her nostrils, then dissipates.

Her eyes snap open.

She flashes into motion, twirling and striking, fast, powerful, precise. The very air protests her movements, snapping angrily at her ankles and wrists as they escape its clutches. The sound is thunder. She leaps, dancing through the air. She is the lightning.

"Hold that position!" Kathryn cries.

Ranma falls from the air, landing on one leg, stiff as a board. She teeters precariously before impossibly finding her balance in her awkward position: one foot jutting high into the sky and body twisted in the middle of a punch following the previous kick.

After straining to hold the position for some time, Ranma blinks and turns her eyes as much as she can to face Kathryn. "Exactly how long do you want me to hold this?" she asks desperately through stiff lips.

"Just a few more minutes!" Kathryn responds enthusiastically. Her hands fly across the paper in her lap.

Ranma groans, then steels herself.

A few minutes pass.

"There! All done!"

Ranma collapses into a heap on the ground, then flops over and stares once again at the roiling gray clouds in the sky... at least until her view is disrupted by a sketch book thrust a few inches in front of her nose.

"Do you like it?" Kathryn asks.

Ranma waits until the image comes into focus... a young girl, with long braided hair and intense eyes, hand reared back to strike a dragon many times her size. The dragon is snarling, smoke drifting from its wide snout. It isn't clear who is winning the bout.

"I think I'd beat the dragon," says Ranma haughtily.

"Are you sure? It's mighty big," replies Kathryn.

Ranma doesn't have a response. She just gazes at the image a while longer, until she hears soft laughter in the distance.

Around the tree down by the lake five children wrapped in warm clothing take each others hands, and then they dance, and chant a song; their words drift along...

Ring around the rosy

Pocket full of posy

Ashes

Ashes

We all fall-


	4. Harmony in Four Strings

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

**Started: ** January 4, 2005

**Last Update:** July 13, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**_Timeline Ranma's Life, 1971-1991_**

_Note:_ Takahashi's first release of Ranma ½ was in 1987. This was chosen as the year Ranma arrives at the Tendo Dojo as the basis for the Ranma timeline. Takahashi used a common cartoonist's style, going season after season from 1987 to 1996, without aging the characters a single year – that was expanded into the typical fanon two-years-in-Nerima. If you aren't in agreement, I ask that you suspend disbelief.

The Harry Potter timeline is based in 1991-1997, which is a common interpretation of the contradictory clues in the novels, and matches the Warner Brother's official timeline.

_**canon backstory **_

_March 26, 1971 – _Ranma is born as a male to the Saotome clan.

_June 1977 –_ Ranma steals okinomiyaki from Ukyou.

_May 1982 –_ Ranma is taught the neko-ken.

_April 1985 –_ Ranma steals bread from Ryouga.

_March 26, 1987 – _Ranma is cursed at Jusenkyo and later receives the kiss of death from Shampoo. (Happy 16th!)

**_canon_**

_April 12, 1987 – _Ranma arrives at the Tendo Dojo.

_April 1987- February 1989_ – Lots of adventures and fights – including Orochi, Herb, Asura/Rogue, Octo/Taro, and Ryu Kumon, but not Konatsu, copy-chan, or Saffron. Ranma meets his mother, Nodoka, only as Ranko Tendo and her pet Mr. Panda.

_February 1989 – _Ranma eats the age-defying mushroom. (V.33).

_**backstory**_

_February 1989 –_ The mushrooms are destroyed.

_March 1989 – _Ranma leaves the Tendo Dojo to search for cures to his curse and age problem.

_October 1989 – _Ranma is hospitalized in a coma after a mysterious "explosion" in or around the London Underground.

_March 1990 – _Ranma wakes from coma but is incoherent, babbling, and dangerous. She is relocated to an asylum, where she is eventually outfitted with a Kevlar® straight jacket. Her wing in the asylum is cleared out for being "haunted"... by her.

_**prologue**_

_August 1991 – _Ranma is given an amulet by a mysterious figure. She begins recovery.

_October 1991 – _Ranma's recovery is noted and pressure grows to have her removed from the asylum from several organizations. The Ministry of Magic gets involved, trying to get her with a Muggle family that houses a witch.

_**Chapter one**_

_October 24, 1991 – _Ranma is adopted by the Grangers. Her ability to transform into a boy under hot water is discovered that night.

_October 30, 1991 –_ Ranma gets involved in an otherwise minor street fight with three bullies. Later the same day, Ranma tests into Headwings primary as a math and science "genius," taking math and science with fourteen-year-olds rather than (ahem!) children her own age.

_**Chapter two**_

_October 30, 1991, Lunch –_ Ranma meets Audrey and Kathryn and they become fast friends.

_November 27, 1991 –_ Children play football outside. Ranma is distracted and hurts another girl. For safety and legal reasons, she is forbidden from physical activities supervised by the school, under the guise of medical reasons.

_December 1991 –_ Ranma starts practicing the violin to replace her physical education course next term.

**_Next_: **Hermione arrives.

**Chapter Three: **Harmony in Four Strings

People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.   
– George Orwell 

December 1991

-oOo-

"So how was your first term at school, dear?" Elinore asks of the bushy-haired girl in the back seat.

"Oh, um..." Hermione hesitates. _Well, I've made two good friends... both of them are boys, and one is a celebrity. I've met ghosts – history class is taught by one. I've been chased by a juvenile poltergeist, a sadistic caretaker, and a nosy cat. I almost fell through a trick stair high in the tower. My friends and I were nearly eaten by giant three-headed dog named _Fluffy_ of all things. On Halloween, I was attacked by a troll wielding a club bigger than I am. My potions teacher hates me; I had to start his robes on fire to keep him from killing Harry, and we're trying to keep him from stealing whatever Dumbledore is hiding. And if they ever find out, I might be expelled! _Hermione glances at her father, who is preoccupied driving through busy traffic. If he knew even half of that, she'd be pulled from Hogwarts in a heartbeat. So she continues vaguely, "well... it was... very interesting. The school song is even worse than Headwings', but the motto is much better."

"Oh! Do tell!" exclaims Elinore.

"The motto is _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_." Hermione grins. Then she drolly adds, "and _never_ ask me to sing the school song."

Gareth chuckles from the front seat. "Sound advice if ever I heard any."

Elinore looks in askance of her husband. "Which part, dear? The motto, or never asking Hermione to sing?"

"Both!" Gareth declares.

Elinore giggles, then smiles slyly at Hermione. "So what's this I hear about you having a boyfriend?"

Hermione freezes up and blushes. "B-b-boy-friend? Where did you hear about that! Eep! I mean... I don't have a boyfriend!"

"Oh, really?" Elinore raises an eyebrow, grins widely, fixes her gaze on Hermione, and tries to prevent herself from laughing at her daughter's antics.

Hermione continues panicking; Mom can't really believe that, can she? "I really don't! Harry and Ron are friends, and they're boys, yeah, but not boyfriends!"

"So there are _two_ boys!" Elinore squeals happily. "How they must fight over you..."

"Mom!"

Elinore laughs heartily. "I'm just teasing. I'll believe you... for now."

"Mom..." Hermione sighs and gives up. "... you wouldn't happen to know who Nicolas Flamel is, would you?"

"Who?" Gareth asks while concentrating on traffic.

"Can't say that I've heard of him," says Elinore.

"That's what I expected," says Hermione brightly. "So, how have you been while I was away? Missing me, I hope!"

Gareth starts, "Well, we can also say it's been interesting. What, with you gone, we've been able to have wild-" 

"GARETH!" Elinore interrupts, blushing furiously.

Gareth smirks and glances at his wife.

Hermione grimaces as her mind, unfortunately, pursues the chosen topic. Striving to change the subject to _anything_ else, she says, "A few owls ago, you mentioned something about a surprise waiting for me when I came back..."

"Oh, yes," Elinore replies while composing herself. "It's still there," she adds with a nervous grin.

"Elinore... we talked about this," Gareth grumbles reprovingly.

"And you agreed to let me handle it, dear. So let me handle it," Elinore retorts.

Gareth closes his mouth and continues driving.

Hermione watches the exchange worriedly.

Elinore smiles over her shoulder at Hermione. "You're just going to have to wait until we get home. Why don't you tell me a little about your classes?"

Hermione begins counting on her fingers, "I have Astronomy, Charms, Defense, Herbology, History, Potions, and Transfiguration. In Astronomy we...-" Hermione proceeds to describe her classes in detail, much to her mother's satisfaction. She even pulls out her diary and quotes specific days for events.

After the car pulls into the drive, Hermione struggles to pull her trunk from the car until her father's sturdy arms reach past her and lift it out. "Thanks, Dad."

"Not a problem." Gareth smiles and lays a large hand on his daughter's head, ruffling up the hair.

Hermione wraps her arms tightly around her father's chest, burying her face in his sweater. "I missed you," she murmurs.

"I missed you too," Gareth replies, returning the hug. "Time flies. You grow. Just where did those four months go?" he asks wistfully. "You move on ahead; I'll carry this to your room."

Hermione gives her mother a quick hug then scuttles to the door, swinging it wide open. For a moment, she stares at the knob in shock. "Shouldn't this be locked?" she asks. "You know it isn't safe – not even in this part of London."

Elinore interrupts. "We know the lecture, dear, having given it to you several times. Let's just say it has something to do with the surprise."

"Discovering my home has been robbed or vandalized would definitely be an unpleasant surprise!" retorts Hermione. Then she hears an explosion of pealing laughter from somewhere deep in the house. "I think there's someone here," she tells her mother in hushed tones.

Then Hermione hears the thunderous approach of three girls bouncing down the main stairs.

The tallest girl is rather boyish, with bowl-cut bleach-blond hair and red highlights; combined with her cream colored slacks and her red sweater, she resembles nothing so much as a candy-cane. That impression is aided by a painted candy-cane decorating her cheek. The shortest girl's long red hair hangs to her thighs in a neat plait, and she wears black drawstring pants and an overly-large, familiar, blue shirt with sleeves rolled to the shoulders, and some sort of silver chain, mostly hidden by her collar. The last girl is...

"Audrey? What are you doing here?" asks Hermione.

Audrey blinks in surprise, then reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind her mousy ears. "I'm here with Ranma," she says, indicating the smaller girl. "You know me?"

"I've seen you around the library; we met when I helped you find a book last year." Hermione says, feeling hurt and a little hostile. She turns her gaze to Ranma, briefly catching her cerulean blue eyes before looking again at her clothes. "Isn't that my shirt?"

Candy-cane girl hops down the last step and grabs Hermione's hand enthusiastically, then begins speaking quickly. "Hi! I'm Kathryn Keynes. You must be Ranma's sister! Is it true you're really a witch? Are dragons real? What about unicorns? Can you show us some magic? What's it like to be a witch? Can you turn a prince into a toad? Is _Prince of Persia_ based on a real person? Do you get to fly on a broomstick? Does just any broom work or do you need specialty brooms? If just any broom works, I'll lend you mine. Oh yeah, you haven't met Ranma yet, have you? I'm so sorry! I shouldn't interfere with your important sisterly bonding. I think I'll just leave now; I'll go find a broom or maybe I'll find something to eat in the kitchen. Ranma made yakisoba for lunch and leftovers are calling!" Kathryn dashes away as quickly as she appeared. Audrey glances back at Hermione, before trailing after the energetic blond.

Hermione's eyes widen during the onslaught and for a while she stands dazed in the doorway.

Elinore steps up behind Hermione and gently pushes her into the house. "Stop gawking and get inside, Hermione; you're letting all the cold air in. Well, aren't you two going to introduce yourselves?"

Ranma closes the distance and peers upwards into the brown eyes of her adoptive big sister. "Hi, _oneesan_," she says simply. Then she bows, ever so slightly. "I am Ranma."

"You're my sister?" Hermione asks incredulously, her mind still reeling.

"_Hai, oneesan_," says Ranma, this time with an amused smirk. "I was adopted two months ago. I have heard much about you; I am glad to finally meet you."

"Well, _I_ am wondering why _I_ haven't heard _anything_ about you!" Hermione shouts, directing her baleful accusation at both Elinore and Gareth, who is just now struggling to fit her trunk through the doorway.

Gareth does his best to look innocent and glances at Elinore. "Ask her," he grunts as he shuffles past, lugging the trunk up the stairs.

Elinore cringes and wrings her hands. "Ah... surprised?" she asks.

"YES!" Hermione screeches.

"I really thought you would take this better," says Elinore. Then she continues in a quieter, sterner voice, "But please keep the volume down, dear. We have guests."

"Sorry," Hermione apologizes. "It's just-" she glances at Ranma, then turns back to her mother. "Can we go somewhere else to talk about this?" She grabs her mother's wrist and starts dragging her up the stairs when she notices the frown on Ranma's face.

"I had hoped- I'm sorry about this," Ranma says, hurt showing her stormy blue eyes.

"Look, I'm not blaming _you_ for anything. Okay?" Hermione says somewhat patronizingly. "I hope we can become good friends... sisters; whatever. But right now I _really_ need to talk to my parents. Alone." That said, she stomps up the stairs, pulling her mother along.

Elinore pauses as she passes Ranma and offers the child a small smile and a caress to the cheek with her free hand. "Don't worry; everything will work out. Hermione's just a little... upset that we didn't inform her of your situation. Why don't you start supper with the girls? We should be down within an hour."

Ranma sits on the bottom stair, chin in her hands and frown on her face. She remains there for some time before leaving to the kitchen.

Upstairs, Hermione is an emotional storm that her parents are weathering with practiced ease. "How could you do this? Don't I have a right to know? And don't you DARE say anything about_ this_ being your surprise. I was only gone for four months, and you... you replaced me!" Hermione accuses fiercely.

Elinore looks stricken and weakly says, "Hermione you know we'd never try to replace you."

"I know! ... I know," Hermione lets out a tense breath, trying to restore her bearing. "But what else am I supposed to think? I leave and then suddenly when I come back I have a sister. I'd understand it if you were five months pregnant, but you weren't! You didn't bother to ask my feelings. You didn't even tell me you did it! I have a right to know!"

Hermione stalks about, pacing the room in agitation as she strives to put words to her feelings. "You could have told me. You could have asked what I thought. Even if the final decision was in your hands you could have sent even _just one_ letter! It hurts... it hurts that you didn't. It... it makes me feel like you don't think I am part of this family."

Hermione pauses for a moment, but before Elinore can say anything the girl suddenly starts again with fury. "Oh sure! I'll be gone ten months each year for the next six years, and, _sure_, when that's finished I'll probably move out to find a job, but I'm still your daughter. You're still my family ... And now, whether I like it or not, she is too."

Hermione flops into a seat and sighs. "I know that I really shouldn't blame her for this, but I can't help it, part of me wants to. The rest of me- If you had asked, I probably wouldn't have objected; I've always wanted a sister, so I guess I'll make the best of this opportunity. Yet... it's so hard to say this without sounding petty. And maybe it is petty, but seeing her here right now, right after I started going to Hogwarts makes me feel like you're replacing me – like I am a freak and you want someone _normal_ instead of a witch."

A nervous giggle escapes Elinore's lips, though she manages to stifle it.

Hermione whirls on Elinore, fierce with fury. "Hey! This isn't funny!"

Looking upon the dead seriousness of her daughter doesn't help at all. Instead another burst of laughter flies free. Trying to redeem herself through barely contained mirth Elinore manages, "Sorry but... Ranma... _normal_...?"

Another fit of giggles leaves Elinore twitching on the ground. Gareth leans down to help his debilitated wife. Turning to the indignant Hermione he offers explanation. "What your mother is trying to say is that you have nothing to fear about Ranma being too _normal_ or 'replacing' you; in fact, there's a good chance she'll be joining you at Hogwarts in two years. Apparently, the event that orphaned her was magical in nature and somehow left its mark in a manner that the ministry believes might result in magical ability. My best guess is that it deactivated the allele that suppresses the manifestation of magic."

Elinore recovering herself gives Gareth a weak glare. "Really, you aren't going to bring up _that_ discussion again."

"There is nothing wrong with trying to quantify magic within the bounds of science," Gareth declares, arms folded and resolute.

Fury melds into confusion. "Umm, what is an allele? And what does that have to do with anything?" Hermione asks.

"An allele is one of at least two particular expressions of a gene; it is part of your DNA. Alleles often define simple traits, such as blood type or eye color. More complex traits, like intelligence and height, are often defined by dozens or even hundreds of alleles in addition to environment," Gareth explains. "In this case I am talking about a single gene responsible for whether an individual is or is not a wizard."

"Presuming that such an allele exists!" Elinore snaps out. "It is entirely possible that magic is gained and or transferred through a mechanism _other_ than genetic material. If such is the case it would offer a much better explanation as to how Ranma developed magical ability."

"Occam's Razor, Elinore," Gareth says, as though in explanation. "Genetics explain how Hermione can be a witch even though she was born from two Muggles. Further, if you presume that the allele that suppresses magic is dominant, and that the recessive allele that allows for magic is rare, then it follows that not only would the appearance of wizards born of Muggles be rare and unpredictable, but equally that all children born of two wizards would be wizards themselves – a clear match with reality."

"What about Squibs?" Hermione asks suddenly, frowning.

"Squibs, dear?" Elinore questions.

"Yes, that is what the wizarding world calls people born from wizards that have no magical ability," Hermione clarifies.

"Well, husband of mine?" Elinore crows victoriously.

Gareth smirks. "Easy! There are two clear possibilities. One, that as with the the case of height; an individual can be short or tall. However, if you have the allele that makes you a dwarf, you will be short even if both parents are tall. Squibs could simply receive a grouping of genes that causes them to be nearly as weak magically as a non-wizard. Alternatively there could be another grouping of alleles that could also result in stunted magic. Given the number of genes in a human either, or even both, is easily possible."

"It still doesn't explain why Ranma has magical ability," Elinore counters.

"It isn't certain Ranma _has_ magical ability," Gareth returns.

"Do you _really_ believe that?" Elinore says rolling her eyes in exasperation. "And one way or another it doesn't matter if Ranma has magical ability. We can presume from the mere fact that the ministry even _considered_ such a possibility that this _has_ happened."

"Touché; in this case I imagine events either changed, masked, or otherwise altered the expression of the gene."

"Occam's Razor, dear," Elinore taunts in return. "It is incredulous to believe that a random event changeda gene in every single cell in the whole body in the exact same manner."

"It is well known that drugs can affect the expression or symptoms of a gene in the whole body," Gareth returns. "So I imagine that magic could as well. Further, we know from Ranma's confirmation in biology class that there is the presence of XX and respectively XY after transformation. Thus, magic _can_ result in massive uniform genetic change."

"Wait! What's this about a transformation? And while I know this stuff about genetics and whatnot is interesting, but shouldn't we be talking about this Ranma girl instead?" Hermione asks, shoving her way into the conversation.

"Sorry dear; we were revisiting an old discussion," Elinore replies, leveling a glare at Gareth, who remains stalwart. "And that should be '_Ranma'_ or '_my sister'_, not '_this Ranma girl_.' You shouldn't talk about _anyone_ that way. Perhaps it's time for you to meet her, and I mean _really_ meet her, not the... greeting... you gave Ranma when you first met," she scolds.

Gareth places a hand on Hermione's head and ruffles her hair affectionately. "Come on, lets go back down stairs. We can continue this later."

Hermione frowns, unwilling to table the conversation, but after a moment she relents.

-oOo-

With aged limbs and a high, craggy voice better utilized cackling madly from the clock tower at midnight screeching, _It's alive. It's alive, _Erwin dances dynamically and sings into the microphone. "_Huggin' and a-kissin', dancin' and a-lovin', wearin' next to nothin' cuz' it's hot as an o-ven! The whole shack shimmies. The whole shack shimmies! Cuz' everybody's movin' around and around and around!_"

Gosunkugi averts his eyes while the old man spins around... and around... and around.

He's not kidding, Gosunkugi notes with disgust. Erwin really _is _wearing next to nothing. He's wearing shortshorts, bushy white eyebrows, and his wrinkled, mottled, tattooed skin. That's it. And that's unusual. There are no stitches. There are no splints. There is no duct-tape holding him together. He looks as fresh as the day he died – fresher, even. He also looks _very _disturbing in those short shorts, and while the massive tattoos do mollify the immodesty, they are disturbing in their own right.

"_Everybody's movin'! Everybody's groovin', baby!_" sings Brook, swaying drunkenly.

"_Folks linin' up outside just to get down..._" cackles Erwin.

Gosunkugi absently juggles a dagger with one hand and watches the pair a few moments longer before gazing around the room.

The room is decorated for the festive Christmas party, with electric candles and evergreen. Erwin and Brook are singing wildly into the new karaoke machine. Chad sits quietly at the work table, assembling a build-your-own robot from Asuracorp. Lauren -

Gosunkugi snorts. Of course Lauren would be doing work even on Christmas day. The woman's first love is money. She'd be worse than Nabiki if it weren't for her massive generosity when it comes to her friends and employees.

As though sensing his eyes, Lauren looks up at him from her pile of papers. She abruptly smiles. Gosunkugi's eyes soften and he smiles back.

"_Ti-i-in roof! Rusted!_" shouts Brook.

Lauren was generous this Christmas, perhaps because of their recent success and growing workload. Brook received a karaoke machine, although it is difficult to tell whether she or Erwin is enjoying it more. Chad received that build-your-own-robot kit with which he is currently occupied outfitting it with a taser and a police baton because Lauren forbade guns.

Gosunkugi examines the kit a little more closely. _Asuracorp?_ That name, and the futuristic technology in the robot, tickle at Gosunkugi's mind... oh! that powered suit he purchased years ago. How long ago was it? Three years? Four? He purchased a powered suit back in Nerima in the vain hope of defeating Ranma and, thereby, winning Akane's heart.

Gosunkugi snorts. He was such a fool back then.

The suit had the oddest restrictions. It didn't move or power up until your enemy arrived. Further, it couldn't be removed until your enemy was defeated... or at least punched once. Gosunkugi made a mistake right off – he donned the suit right out of the box, before reading the instructions. He was stuck until his enemy arrived. His challenge to Ranma included, "come pick me up."

Fortunately, Ranma came.

Once he did, the suit was devastating in its effect, doing almost all the fighting for the unskilled boy. It enhanced his mobility, allowing him to leap walls and fences, literally dragging Ranma behind him – its first attack captured Ranma with a chain. The suit's armor was able to turn even Ranma's attacks without suffering significant damage. The suit's punches were capable of destroying walls.

But the suit was defeated in the end. It wasn't quite fast enough to hit Ranma, although it came close several times... but it wasn't Ranma that defeated the suit. The suit had a short battery life, and that battery _exploded_ when out of juice, rather than simply shutting down. That hurt.

Gosunkugi abruptly searches Chad's workbench and Asuracorp build-it-yourself robot kit for the battery pack. He doesn't find it, but he relaxes when he sees the stacks of manuals and sheets of blueprints occupying the hefty table. Chad, at least, will identify that potential danger and act to remove it. At the moment the stocky man is working on the programming, clicking away with his hands – both prosthetic and real – at a small computer with a monochrome green monitor.

Thinking of programming, how the _heck _was the suit programmed to identify your _enemy_ so that it could power up and crush him? Is that even possible? Gosunkugi doesn't remember feeding the suit any pictures of Ranma.

... Suddenly, Gosunkugi feels very thankful that Lauren forbade the robot any guns. He has growing bad feelings about that Asuracorp build-it-yourself robot.

Gosunkugi removes his mind from the subject of Chad's gift by moving on to the others. Erwin received an old scroll and a small pouch from Lauren. He hadn't directly revealed their contents or purpose to anyone else, but Gosunkugi suspects that they are related to his newest tattoos and new health – if such a term can be applied to a corpse. And Gosunkugi -

Ghost received a _stylin'_ black leather trench coat and a heavy tactical bullet-proof vest. The coat is beautiful – Gosunkugi plans to purchase black sunglasses to go with it as soon as possible... and a haircut. But the armor -

It's hot. It's heavy. It's expensive. It's ominous.

On the bright side, it doesn't go _Boom!_.

The armor masses almost fifteen kilograms with all the rifle-plates attached... which, surprisingly, Gosunkugi can now handle rather easily. It slows him down a little, but he can fight in it. For Gosunkugi, the main problem isn't the mass. It's the heat. The armor, especially in combination with the trench coat, _is _as _hot as an o-ven_. And that's during Winter. Gosunkugi does _not _look forward to wearing it on a hot summer day.

And that's what's ominous about it. Gosunkugi _knows_ he'll be wearing it this summer. He _knows_ that this armor are expensive – probably over one thousand British pound sterling – and that he'll be earning every pound back with _considerable_ interest, and that he'll be earning them back through _dangerous_ contracts. Gosunkugi _knows_ that getting the bullet-proof vest almost certainly means he'll be getting _shot_ at. That doesn't sound appealing _at all_. That is, decidedly, ominous.

However, Gosunkugi understands why Lauren purchased it.

One of their team has _already_ been shot. While United Kingdom gun control laws are very strict, there are an increasing number of illegal firearms on the streets. Manty-corp's own guns are legal; they are licensed for _pest control_, which is why Gosunkugi uses a shotgun that stretches the limits of legality. However, Manty-corp has a rather broad definition of _pest..._ a definition broad enough that one of the pests shot back. Fortunately, it hit Erwin, who didn't really notice the nine-millimeter holes in his torso until he was back at base.

Clatter. "Ouch!" The dagger strikes the ground, fumbled by Gosunkugi.

Gosunkugi hisses under his breath and clutches at his finger. The cut – just a tiny little nick on the tip of his finger – burns, stinging far worse than such a small, superficial wound has any right.

Slowly, red blood beads along the cut. The blood pearls into a single globule that hangs precariously between the forces of surface cohesion and gravity. Hissing in pain and clenching his aggrieved finger, Gosunkugi absently shakes the blood-sphere free. The droplet falls towards the ground... then, suddenly, it radically shifts directions and _zooms_ towards the fallen dagger, splashing silently against its black iron blade.

Almost immediately, dozens, no, hundreds of dark red lines begin to form on the black blade. They are the color of fresh blood on a white surface, considerably brighter than one would expect of blood on black iron. The lines slowly spread from the point of impact, worming their way outwards, as though flowing through tiny grooves etched into the metal surface. They form tiny runes, but the runes shift and waver, slipping out of view, slipping out of mind like smoke between the fingers, leaving residue behind... vague impression that lingers.

The spreading stops after covering a hand's width of the dagger's length on the exposed side. As Gosunkugi reaches down to grab the dagger, the red runes are already fading away.

Gosunkugi gazes clinically at the blade, watching the last vestiges of the fading runes.

There is another person who needs protection – not body armor, but protection of the sort this weapon can provide. There are creatures that fists alone cannot harm – ghosts, for example. _Perhaps_, Gosunkugi thinks, _a late Christmas gift is in order._ He doesn't need the dagger anymore; his rapier has proven quite capable. And the dagger doesn't belong to him anyway; Gosunkugi found it in _Ranma's_ hand on the very day Ranma was put into a coma two years ago. It's only right that Gosunkugi finally return it.

Besides, it's creepy.

"Hi-ka-ru!" Brook squeals, drunkenly draping her arms over his shoulders in a loose hug from behind. "You need to sing too, you know. Even Chad sang a little." Then she whispers into his ear, "And you can't possibly sing worse than him."

Gosunkugi snorts as he gently disengages himself from Brook and sheathes the dagger. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he drawls. "I think his robotic rendition of _Daisy Bell_ was inspired by his new gift. You haven't convinced Lauren to sing."

Brook pouts a little. "Lauren said she'll sing, and I quote, after everyone else has had a turn. So if you want to hear her sing, you'll need to get up there."

Gosunkugi's eyes drift over to Lauren and he contemplates this until -

"_I'm too sexy for this shirt, too sexy for this shirt, so sexy it hurts,_" Erwin sings, voice as low as he can force it. He has donned a shirt and is now slowly stripping it off.

Lauren, horrified, looks up from her work and glares at the old man in a manner that clearly demands, "Find a different song, immediately!"

Erwin smirks and continues singing, "_I'm too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York and Japan. ... And I'm too sexy for your party, too sexy for your party; no way I'm disco dancing._"

Lauren strides purposefully towards Erwin.

"_I'm a model. You know what I mean? And I do my little turn on the catwalk._" Erwin does a little turn, managing to keep the microphone from Lauren's hands. "_Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah, I shake my little tush on the catwalk._"

Gosunkugi shudders as Erwin begins to _shake his little tush _in his short shorts.

"_I'm too sexy for my- _Hey!" Erwin shouts as Lauren cuts the music and confiscates the microphone.

"Gosunkugi-kun, I do believe it's your turn up here," Lauren states. Her eyes bear no refusal.

Gosunkugi puffs a put-upon sigh, then walks to the stage. Grabbing the mike he smiles and says, "Okay, Manty-san, but you're next." He flips through the music a bit before settling on a song.

"_This one goes out to the one I love,_" Gosunkugi utters in a reasonable approximation to singing. "_This one goes out to the one I left behind. A simple prop to occupy my time, this one goes out to the one I love._"

Gosunkugi continues to sing, wondering who he's truly singing for. There are memories of his first true love, smashed in that ham-fisted way that only she could wield so carelessly, leaving his heart trampled and torn, broken and bruised in the dust. For a long time, he wished he could to return to the simple days of, _I don't hate you. _ She is the one he loved. She is the one he left behind. But...

He glances at Brook and Lauren.

This song is for nobody, he decides. He no longer loves the girl he left behind, and he'll never leave behind the woman he now loves... even if that means he must never confess.

The song finished, he smirks and places the microphone into Lauren's waiting hands. He gazes into her eyes and allows his fingers to linger in hers before she snatches it all away.

Lauren chooses a song more befitting her own love.

"_Money, get away. Get a good job with good pay and you're o-okay. Money, it's a gas. Grab that cash with both hands and ma-ake a stash. New car, caviar, four star daydream, think I'll buy me a football team._"

-oOo-

Nineteen inches by thirteen inches by five inches thick, weighing fifteen point three pounds, having twenty four-hundred pages and more, carrying the photo-reduced text of a complete twenty volume set, and coming with a magnifying glass best described as both complimentary and complementary, and you can look up the difference if don't already know it because _this_ is the _Compact Oxford English Unabridged Second-Edition Dictionary_, less than two months off the press... It seems amazing, no, impossible that a twelve-year-old, bushy-haired girl with small hands is waving it angrily above her head, yet there it is – Hermione's only significant Christmas gift. She had been ecstatic, but now she is yelling.

"_Oneesan_ is not a word! I know – I checked!" Hermione proclaims, door flung open ahead of her.

Ranma stares at her for a moment, then shrugs and returns to her violin. "You used the wrong dictionary," she says curtly.

"It's _unabridged_!" Hermione awkwardly highlights the word with a hand gesture, barely hefting the book in one arm.

Ranma holds the violin with a frown. Hesitantly she draws her bow across. An ecclesiastic choir of banshees screams from the oscillating strings. Ranma pauses, letting the sound fade from the room. She adjusts her grip. She draws the bow once again. A pristine note shudders, shivers, then shatters into a shrill soul-rending screech.

Hermione stomps inside. She sets the massive tome up upon Ranma's spartan work desk with a resounding thump. Whirling, the girl declares, "I have looked it up in _three_ dictionaries. _Oneesan _is _not_ a word! And put that thing down before you kill someone; it sounds like a cross between a banshee and a mandragora."

Ranma glares at her older sister, but sets the bow aside. With her hand free, she reaches across her desk and grabs a book while asking, "And just how do you know what a banshee or a mandragora sounds like? You'd be dead if you heard one."

"I listened to you play; that's how!" Hermione retorts. "Except I imagine the mandragora is easier on the ears. You're out of tune; you haven't rubbed rosin on that bow for ages, and you're holding the violin all wrong! And _what_ is this?" Hermione asks the last as Ranma shoves the book into her chest.

"The right dictionary," says Ranma. Then she offers the violin. "And why don't _you_ show me, if you're so good at this thing? It isn't as though I've had any help with it."

Hermione ignores her, flipping through the small book in her hands. "A Japanese to English dictionary?" she asks disdainfully after finally reading one of the few English blurbs on the cover.

"_Hai, oneesan,_" says Ranma, eyes twinkling playfully.

"Why do you keep saying 'hi'? I already know you're there," Hermione utters, not really expecting a response as she continues to flip through the book. If she had known a little sister would tease and antagonize her as much as Ranma does, she would have quickly killed any desire for a younger sibling. "I can't find '_oneesan' _in this. I can hardly read a word in this thing! It's all in those weird kanji symbols."

Ranma grabs the book and points, in much the same manner as Hermione did earlier, at a blurb denoting that the book was designed '_By and for tourists_.' It is one of the few bits of English on the cover. "It would hardly be useful for Japanese tourists if they couldn't read the words now, would it? And it's not all in kanji; there's also a lot of hiragana and katakana. There's even some romaji in the appendix."

Hermione glares at her adopted sister then slumps into the bed. She is both exhausted and exasperated beyond measure and wondering what sort of civilized language would use four writing systems. "Just tell me, would you?" she demands.

"No. Well, maybe..." Ranma starts, touching her lower lip and gazing at the ceiling in false contemplation.

"Maybe what?" Hermione asks.

"Maybe if you help me with the violin, I'll tell you what _'oneesan' _means, big sister," Ranma replies with an amused grin. Again she proffers the violin. "Elinore told me this used to be yours, but you quit after hardly giving it a try," she adds.

"I'd try to help you anyway, if only to save my ears," Hermione says caustically. "I don't think it will do you any good; you're worse than awful. And I did give the instrument a fair try," she adds defensively.

Ranma glares daggers at her sister in response to the insult, then abruptly switches tactics and slowly sticks out her lower lip in a pout, knowing her wide and shiny cerulean eyes will finish the job.

"I'm just not interested in music," Hermione continues, "... well, at least not in playing it. Hey, stop that! No mere puppy-dog eyes are going to make me listen to racket that makes anarchist death metal seem fit to replace _God Save the Queen_ as the national anthem!"

Despite her protests, Hermione finds herself falling for that deep, wide, pity-inducing gaze. Wrenching her eyes away, she tries to find _anything_ else to look at. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much in the austere room. There is the bed, a desk carrying her tome and its own small mess of papers, a lamp, a small shelf of books, a stand with either unused or grievously misplayed sheet music and... nothing else. There are no toys in the room. There are no decorations on the walls. There is no mess on the floor.

Ranma had received no real toys for Christmas; instead she has three new machine-washable cotton kung-fu suits from her parents, along with matching pairs of kung-fu slippers. Ranma's wide, honest smile when she opened the gifts had been impossible to forget. Beyond that, Ranma's only other gift had been from Kathryn and Audrey -- A pair of roller-blades that convert, with effort, into ice skates. Ranma had eyed the last warily, yet agreed to try them out later. The weather has not yet permitted; it is neither cool enough to freeze the local lake nor dry enough for play on the asphalt.

In comparison Ranma had wasted no time before trying out her new clothes. She is currently wearing the violet kung-fu suit and a pair of white socks on her dainty feet. The silver chain, as always, hangs around her neck slipping into the jacket. The ensemble appears both cute and quite natural on her.

To each her own, Hermione supposes; she doesn't imagine more than one girl in a million her age would be truly happy to receive an expensive fifteen pound dictionary as their only significant Christmas gift.

A resounding screech makes Hermione jump. Her head whips around to catch Ranma carrying the bow in one hand, the violin in the other. Grinning mischievously, Ranma begins to drag the bow across the stringed instrument, resulting in another shrill cry. Panicking, Hermione grabs the bow, causing Ranma to stop torturing the instrument.

"Okay! I'll show you! Just don't do that again!" Hermione shouts.

"Do what again?" Ranma asks, trying her very best to appear innocent. The attempt is ruined by her wicked smile of victory as she hands over the violin.

Hermione mutters something incomprehensible about ungrateful little sisters as she rummages around with a free hand in the violin case. Lifting a small cloth package, she starts in her teaching voice, "First you must prepare the bow. You set the right tightness for the hair using this screw. The strings are just a little too loose right now; they should have more bounce to them, so tighten it like this. You also need to rosin the bow."

Hermione pulls a waxy black cake from the cloth. "This is rosin. Rosin helps the bow grip the strings. You don't need to rosin the bow every time... only when the grip is beginning to slip. It's easy; just draw the hairs through the groove in the rosin. See? Here, you do that for a few minutes."

Ranma begins to rosin the bow, as per her sister's instructions.

Hermione once again reaches into the case, withdrawing a set of tuning forks. "You also need to tune the violin," Hermione continues. "The idea here is pretty simple; you make each of these strings have the same sound as the appropriate tuning fork by twisting the little peg at the top. This needs done regularly, and always before a performance."

Hermione thwacks the tuning fork in her hand against the desk, creating a clear note. Then she plucks the a string and begins tightening a peg near the top. "The only trick here is that it takes a keen ear. It helps to listen for the beat frequency when you're really close, which is kind of a wobbling in volume that slows down the closer you get. Can you hear it?"

Ranma listens for a few seconds as Hermione continues to tune the string, then nods and says, "I think so, _oneesan._"

Hermione points to the violin strings saying, "The strings are E, A, D, and G from high to low. I've always remembered it with the mnemonic '**E**lizabeth **A**nd **D**aniel **G**ranger', which are my aunt and uncles' names. That might not work for you, but it might help to remember that Elizabeth has a higher voice than Daniel. The same character is marked on the appropriate tuning fork. Here, you should be finished with the rosin; why don't you tune the other three strings?"

Ranma sets the violin in her lap and flicks one of the tuning forks, causing it to vibrate loudly. She stares at it for a few seconds.

Hermione adds, "We're lucky we have synthetic strings; they maintain tune for a long time. The original strings were made of cat gut, and -" she pauses when Ranma blanches. "Yeah, I know how you feel... the _poor_ cats -" Hermione stops speaking and looks in askance when Ranma shudders and looks ready to bolt.

Ranma breathes, deeply and slowly, attempting to shake off her irrational fear. With great intensity, she strikes the tuning fork, looks at the character, then plucks the D string. After a moment she asks softly, "Do they still make strings from c-c-cat g-gut?"

Hermione nods.

"Good. Those evil creatures deserve it." That said, Ranma returns to tuning the violin, merrier than the moment before.

Appalled at her sister's response, Hermione grimaces and says, "... Why don't you... finish that and... I... err... can continue with lesson two tomorrow." She grabs her dictionary and hurries out of the room.

-oOo-

The street lamp flickers; shadows lance across bare pavement. The wind carries just a hint of snow, kissing the face but melting before it touches the ground. Squeak. Squeak. The lamp sways and rocks in the breeze, protesting every motion with its loud whine. Black boots, black suit, black hair slicked back – a dark-eyed man with skin of bronze stands on the edge of shadow and light.

Crunch.

"Hmm..." he mumbles, carelessly dropping a golden wrapper. The wind carries it away and it flashes as it passes under the solitary street lamp.

He raises his eyes to December skies. Clouds enshroud half the night; snow turns back the city lights. The other stars are washed away except the very brightest; he can just barely make out the belt of the great winter warrior in his hunt. Through the haze of mist and drizzle, half in shadow, half in light, the half-moon blazes in splendid penumbra aureola.

_Priest?_ _... umm, may I have some?_

The man, confused, searches around for a moment before seeing a skinny squirrel sitting under the lamplight and gazing back at him with a twinkle in its beady little eyes. Then he smirks and tosses the rodent what's left of his bar of caramel and fudge. The squirrel leaps at the morsel like a starving animal.

"Ah, He-who-dances-between-patches-of-sunlight," says the man, "I should have suspected it was you. Very few can catch me unaware as consistently as you do."

_I didn't make special elite without reason, you know..._

"Of course, I meant no insult. It is very good to see you again; I had thought you lost, like so many others. Come. We must speak."

The priest offers his hand and the rodent leaps several meters through the air and lands in the palm casually, leaving a shadowy afterimage. Shadows flow oddly around the animal's body as if they are pouring out, far too large for the rodent's small frame. After a moment, it scampers up the man's arm to perch on his shoulder.

_Can I have another? _

The priest chuckles. "Of course you may," he says. The man reaches into his coat and withdraws another golden package, and tears it open. He breaks a bar of fudge and caramel in half, popping one in his mouth and handing the other to the squirrel, which grabs it between two paws and starts gnawing. Then the priest begins to stroll. "So, do you know of any others?"

_I know of three others. She-who-flirts-with-light was lost to hunters. Later, I was separated from East-of-sunset when chased. _

"Hunters? Show me."

The nearest street light suddenly buzzes and pops, flickering wildly. A show of light and shadow dances and plays along the wall, telling a story of five hunters, an investigation, a chase, a death. Then it ends.

The priest begins strolling once again, takes another bite of candy, and chews slowly before answering. "They did nothing wrong," the priest says finally. "They merely defend their own, the same as we would."

_They killed my friend._

"Yes, but under the circumstances it wasn't wrong. She-who-flirts-with-light was killing humans. You killed several horses. They have a right to defend themselves and their own; we must play by the rules of this world if we wish to prosper. You've described the fates of She-who-flirts-with-light and East-of-sunset. Tell me of the third."

_... About a month ago I found our goddess. She was hidden within a child, playing in a grassy field, but she was upset with me. She bid me leave, even when I was weak. Why? Has our holy mother abandoned us? _

"This is good news," the man says.

_How? Weren't you listening to me? She refuses to help us._

"Not that. The last I heard, the child was still in a coma. Don't worry – she hasn't abandoned us."

_She never yelled at me before... _

"So, she was a little cross. I saw the fight. First, our holy mother was weakened by widening the gate. Second, she was ridiculed by a midget-demon with the audacity to stand on her head. Third, she was ejected from her first choice of host by a well-timed blow to its head. Fourth, she was injured in battle by the child-host and her father. Finally, she was sealed with the child-host while merging. This would, understandably, make the strongest of us upset," says the priest. "Don't worry. She'll get over it in a few more years. She never could hold a grudge."

_I must say, we underestimated the tenacity of these humans._

"Indeed. At least the holy mother found a host worthy of her."

_So she was sealed? How? Can we undo it?_

"As far as I can tell, the holy mother was sealed by a specialized artifact. But there is no reason to worry; this isn't something time won't fix. That the child has escaped the seal proves it."

_What can we do for her?_

"We can be there for the child. If she ever wants someone to talk to, some extra cash, a ride home, a meal... whatever we can provide so long as we don't spoil her. Simple things like that will endear us to her and get her used to our presence."

_I'm just a squirrel..._

The priest chuckles. "Maybe you can be her pet."

_I'm a special elite, a warrior of her holy order!_

The man smirks. "You're just a squirrel. You said so yourself."

The squirrel sighs and looks forlornly at last the remaining piece of caramel and fudge in the priest's hands.

Oblivious, the priest pops the last bite into his mouth and releases the golden wrapper to the wind. Turning from his path he walks across the street, mind drifting... at least until he is interrupted.

"Nice night, isn't it?" a policeman says with a stern voice.

The priest smiles and glances at the moon and stars once again. "It is beautiful."

"Then I'm sorry to ruin it for you, but I must write you up for two violations of city ordinances: littering and jaywalking. You're lucky you aren't in the park, or I'd get you for feeding that squirrel, too." The officers pulls out a pad and a pen. "Now, what's your name and address?"

The dark man with a shadowy squirrel on his shoulder gazes at the officer for a moment, but remains silent.

The officer's eyes narrow. "If you want to be like that, then you can come down to the station with me."

"That will not be necessary officer, I was merely considering some things of importance. My name is Arden."

"Is that your last name or your first name? And your address?" The officers asks, scribbling something on his pad.

A shadow rises around Arden, seeming to harden, almost a physical thing compared to the softer shadows around it. As the street lamp sways in the chill breeze, the shadow does not sway with it – it sits perfectly still, perfectly black, absorbing all light.

"Arden is my last name, officer. My first name is John, but please call me Arden."

"John? Really? So am I, although I'm Jon without the 'h'," says officer Jon, still scribbling in a pad.

A tendril of shadow lashes out from the mass surrounding Arden and wraps itself around the officer's arms and waist. It lifts the policeman bodily off the ground.

"Wha- What?" Jon gasps out, eyes wide with fear and confusion. The pad and pen fall to the ground, forgotten. The officer's legs flail in the air, but find no purchase.

Arden steps forward and calmly takes the gun from the officer's holster. The priest holds it for a while, in contemplation, ignoring the officer's vain attempts at freedom. Then he turns off the safety, chambers a bullet, and points the gun at the officer's unprotected side. Finally, he pulls the trigger.

BANG! The sound explodes through the silent streets, echoing. Then it is gone.

The officer looks down and wheezes, blood leaking down his uniform, body still. Eyes plead for some understanding. "W-why?"

Arden casually lowers the gun, removes a bullet from the chamber, pops it back in the magazine, and turns on the safety. Finally, without the slightest hurry, he returns the gun to the holster.

"You were too far from the edge," Arden finally explains.

The officer stares. His lips move, but no intelligible sound escapes.

The squirrel scampers down the priest's arm. It sits in the palm, staring at the officer with its small, beady, black eyes. Arden comforts it, pets it, hand caressing its fur, and whispers to it soothingly. "Calm yourself. Relax. Resist your instincts to hold on. Accept the death, embrace the rebirth. We are never who we were a minute ago. Change is nothing to fear; it is inevitable. Let this make you more than you are. Calm... yes that's right... just calm down and let go."

Arden runs his fingers gently along its fur once more, placing his hand around the animal's tiny neck.

The squirrel tenses up and shudders.

The hand twitches. Crrrack. The squirrel's neck breaks with a grinding crunch. But Arden doesn't stop; he twists until the squirrel is looking straight back with its beady black eyes, then he twists some more. Ligaments and muscles tear; nerves, arteries, and skin are ripped apart. The head is torn from the body. Blood rushes from the stump in a dying fountain, staining everything.

Darkness surges from the animal's neck, rising into a volume much larger than the squirrel itself. Part of it reaches out to grab the head, to reattach it, but Arden tosses the head away. Liquid shadow lashes out in pain and panic, first left, then right, up and down and every other direction. Arden's walls of darkness rise to contain it. Softly the priest continues, "Calm down. Let go of this body; another one, a better one, waits for you. You are meant to be far more than a squirrel. You have nothing to fear."

The movements slow becoming smoother and less erratic. Finally, Arden drops the squirrel's corpse and all that remains is the shadow, sitting in his bloody palm like a ball of black oil.

Arden returns his attention to the officer. "Don't worry. You won't die. You won't become a monster. You'll still love your wife, your children, your job; you'll just be... more than you are. The pain will end soon."

The officer gives a raspy cough and spits up a little blood.

Arden extends the dark creature towards the man. "Go, He-who-dances-between-patches-of-sunlight. This one is yours."

Thin tendrils of shadow rise from the black ball and waver in the air. Then all at once they seemingly stretch towards the officer. They enter the nose, and a small trickle of blood pours from the right nostril. More pry open the mouth, making room for dozens to enter. Tendrils of shadow worm their way around the eyeballs and into the sockets. A few tear into his ears and his bullet wound. Then the ball of shadow pours itself along its tendrils, invading the officer's body.

The officer spasms, body wrenching back violently. Then the remaining light fades from his eyes, his head lolls and blood burbles from his mouth.

Arden lowers Jon gently to the ground. The darkness around the priest fades away into the softer shadows one would expect to see. With a wave of his hand and a muttered word, he and the officer are once again impeccably clean.

Squeak. Squeak. The street lamp rocks in the chill winter breeze.

For several minutes, there is no other movement.

Jon's body twitches, then relaxes. The bullet-wound closes. Breath starts with a deep gasp, as from a drowning man. Eyes flicker open, once again filled with life... and confusion, and fear.

Shakily the officer stands and asks, "What did you do to me?"

"You already know the answer to that."

The officer stares, eyes slowly filling with understanding. Finally, the policeman bends down and picks up the pad and pen. Voice recovered, the officer says, "What is your address again, Mr. Arden?"

Arden fishes another golden-wrapped candy bar out of his pocket. He opens the wrapper and takes a bite, staring intently at the officer the whole time.

The officer crumbles the paper with a light laugh, "Of course... What am I thinking? I'll let it go this time, sir, but remember that the law is the law."

"Of course, Jon. Come, and I'll show you to the others."

-oOo-

Hermione's fingertips glide over the small bookshelf in the otherwise bare room, remembering. _Geography_ and _History_ resurrect fond memories involving late-night research at the library, construction paper, scissors, and lots of glue. _English_ summons to mind some of her earliest writings, bound in yarn and read aloud to an uncritical third-year girl. But others- She grabs a book she doesn't recognize, opens it to a random page, and starts reading.

A few passages in, and no closer to a greater understanding of... she closes book and frowns at the cover... of _Geometry – Proving the World from Five Postulates_, she sets the book aside. She grabs another one: _Anatomy and Physiology_; her frown becomes a scowl when she encounters hand-drawn and annotated chakra, pressure-point, and ki-flow charts. She wouldn't have recognized them if they weren't titled. She sets that book, too, aside.

The small pile on Ranma's desk grows as a third and fourth book quickly join it.

She glares at the titles as a sickly feeling grows inside her. ...stronger, faster, prettier... smarter... She stomps on it, denying the possibility that Ranma is actually studying these texts... denying that it even matters. So what if Ranma is unusually talented in math and science? And cooking? And karate?

But the nasty emotion doesn't die. It twists her guts, constricts her lungs, and poisons her heart – a snake building a den deep within her soul.

"Are you looking for something, honey?" Elinore asks from the doorway.

"Mom... can we talk?" Hermione asks.

"Of course, dear. What do you want to talk about?"

"... Ranma," Hermione answers hesitantly.

"Oh?" Elinore responds. She steps inside and closes the door. She glances sidelong at the pile of books then adds, "I think I know what this is about, but it's better if you start."

"It's just..." Hermione starts sullenly, suddenly looking at her feet.

"Come here," says Elinore, pulling her twelve year-old child into a tight hug. Finding a seat on the bed, she slowly rocks her daughter. "Say what must be said."

Tears rise in Hermione's eyes as she gives her emotions free reign, occasionally sniffling or sobbing as she speaks. "It's just that she's... she's faster and me and stronger than me, which I could handle, but she's almost superhuman; you saw how she sets the table... and she's a better cook than me, not that I'm a good cook, but I think she's even better than you..."

Elinore frowns a little, but doesn't interrupt.

Hermione's voice and disposition become more bitter as she continues, "...and she's smarter than me. It's something I've always prided, but she's years above me in math and science. I'll probably never catch up, going to Hogwarts and all... and she's prettier than I am, with that beautiful red hair, big blue eyes, cute smile, perfect teeth... and she has good friends, closer than any I've ever had... and she's probably a strong witch, too... It's just too much! She's too good to be true. It seems like she can do anything better than me, and she's two years younger and... and I'm- I'm..."

"You're jealous?" Elinore asks knowingly.

Hermione sniffles and shakes her head against Elinore's shoulder. "No... well, maybe a little, but mostly I'm envious, and it feels horrible."

Elinore blinks at that, having been unaware there was a difference. But she isn't the girl with her very own _Compact Oxford English Unabridged Second-Edition Dictionary_. She resolves to look it up later; for now, she gently rubs her daughter's back.

"I was envious of a boy once," Elinore says after a moment, still holding Hermione. "He easily passed classes I struggled through. I swear he could sleep through class and still get the highest grade. He was popular, a rugby player, skilled on the piano, and the valedictorian of our class. And somehow, in addition to all that, he managed to find time to help a bushy-haired bookworm study for her biology test."

"What happened?" Hermione asks timidly.

"I married him," answers Elinore. "It was either that or kill him, or at least it felt that way at the time. He didn't ask until we were in college, and I'd been waiting for years." She tightens the hug and smiles smugly at the child in her arms. "It was two more years before we had you."

Hermione squirms uncomfortably until her mother loosens the hug.

"There's no reason to be envious of those you love or those that love you. That might not be the answer you're looking for, but it's the only one I have," Elinore concludes.

Hermione sits still for a while in her mother's arms, just breathing. "The piano downstairs...?" she asks.

"Gareth smashed his hand while playing rugby. Playing the piano was never quite the same," says Elinore. "We gave you a chance at it, but you never seemed interested. You always gravitate towards books, like your mother." Elinore smiles.

Hermione nods.

"Speaking of music, how is Ranma doing anyway?" Elinore asks.

Hermione groans. "She's progressed from banshee to beginner. We've covered holding the violin, basic finger positions, and we've been working on reading sheet music for the last couple days. Yesterday I taught her how to play a simple piece, but then she played it over and over and over again. I wanted to scream!"

Elinore giggles. "When you finally learned to read, you'd read the same books over and over."

"Did not!"

"Did too."

"Fine then, but I was no more than four. Ranma is nine!"

"True. But let her have her victory. It's the first thing remotely related to music that she's performed. Try to teach her a few more pieces so that she'll have some variety."

"I don't _know_ any other pieces. I'm having to relearn this as I teach Ranma. It's sooo frustrating," Hermione growls.

Elinore laughs and hugs Hermione briefly. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes, I think so," Hermione answers, pulling herself out of her mother's embrace.

Elinore gazes at Hermione, trying to decide if there is any more she can say.

"Mom?" Hermione asks.

"What, dear?"

"Why didn't you tell me about Ranma? You had two months."

Elinore contemplates for a while before answering.

"I just... it didn't seem like something I should just say or explain on paper," Elinore starts. She sighs and looks at the floor. "I fretted for weeks about what to say, how to say it; _'Oh, by the way, you have a new sister,'_ just didn't cut it, and nothing I could come up with seemed much better. I couldn't see your face. I didn't know how you'd react. I could imagine you looking at the letter, feeling like you've been replaced or betrayed and I wouldn't be there to hold you and tell you that I love you, that Ranma is a second daughter, a sister to you, not a replacement daughter."

Hermione grabs her mother in a hug. "I'd never think that!"

Elinore grips her child back and forces a smile despite the tears welling in her eyes. "I love you too, with all that I am. But you did think it – just a few days ago you said it aloud, and it hurt... a lot."

Hermione tightens the hug. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"You are forgiven."

Neither mother nor daughter speak for a few minutes, locked in an embrace.

Eventually, Elinore continues, "... After my initial fear, I was able to add justifications. I didn't want to spoil things for you at school, so it became a _surprise_ for when you got home. I convinced myself that you should get your first impression of your new sister _from_ your new sister... Ranma is very charming in her own way."

Hermione frowns. "That she is."

-oOo-

Ranma wobbles unsteadily. She grabs a nearby fence to maintain her precarious balance. Audrey giggles at the sight. Ranma glares in return.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it," Audrey apologizes, stifling another giggle.

Kathryn nods enthusiastically. "Yeah! We were fully expecting to see you start off by skating on _top_ of the fence. I mean, you run on top of them all the time!"

The three girls are outside, wearing their roller-blades. Audrey rolls steadily, carefully to the fence from which Ranma is suspending herself. Kathryn skates energetically, sliding left and right, forwards and backwards, twirling and turning at a whim.

"Here," Audrey says with a smile, offering her hand. "Hold my hand. I'll help you,"

Ranma looks at it warily, reluctant to abandon her support.

Kathryn circles around and spins to a stop. "Come on it isn't that hard! It only took me a week to learn how to skate, and look at me now! I'm sure if you really try you'll be skating circles around both of us pretty soon!"

Ranma enviously watches Kathryn pirouette, leap, and land skating backwards. Then, taking a shaky step forward, Ranma seizes Audrey's hand. The two nearly collapse, but Audrey is able to restore their balance.

Audrey grins and pulls the smaller girl towards her. "There you go. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Ranma wobbles a bit on her feet, warily watching the ground. Audrey takes a step forward, skating ahead, and gestures for Ranma to do the same. Within a few minutes they are making headway, Ranma surviving only by clinging to Audrey for her dear life.

Kathryn takes the lead, often skating backwards while chatting. Occasionally, when the energetic girl gets too far ahead, she skates a few circles around the pair and falls in line with them before taking the lead again.

"See! It's pretty easy when you get used to it," Kathryn declares now that the girls are moving. "Come on! If we hurry up we can stop at the Candy Corner shop before it closes. My dad gave me a five pounds to buy stuff with. I want to get some Christmas candies and some eggnog; they should be on sale!"

"I'm not so sure Ranma will be able to make it," Audrey says, carefully observing their redheaded companion.

Ranma's dismal expression becomes fierce determination. With wavering legs, she stands upright. "It isn't that far," she says stiffly. Immediately, she skates a few staggering steps, still not relinquishing Audrey's hand.

Ranma's obstinate efforts brings them to their destination within a few more minutes. Kathryn wastes no time and skates directly into the store. Ranma, instead, plops down on the steps and starts working off the skates.

Audrey looks back and forth between the two girls, then says, "I'd better follow her in case she gets into trouble."

Ranma nods, too intent on prying the skate off her foot to an answer.

Audrey gives Ranma another glance before she disappears, skating carefully into the store.

Ranma finally works off the other skate. Hopping happily to her feet, she stretches, then turns to head into the shop. But something- Ranma frowns, peering into shadow. There is a person standing there, off to the side of the store, in the darkened ally, wrapped in shadow and a black trench coat. Only a glint, a golden glimmer, reveals the person's presence.

"Ranma," the man says, stepping forward. Better light reveals the gleaming object in his hand; it is a dagger, hilt made of ribbed gold, the hand guard silver. The blade is sheathed in simple leather. The man carrying it is young, Asian, perhaps in his twenties, and he carries it in a clearly non-threatening manner, as an offering. "Here; this is yours, _sensei,_" he says in Japanese.

Ranma walks closer, frowning. She eyes him curiously and asks, also in Japanese, "Who are you?"

"An old traveling companion and friend." He pauses then shakes his head. "You wouldn't remember. It doesn't matter." Offering the dagger again he adds, "Take it – the knife is yours, was yours. I've only been its custodian."

Ranma hesitantly accepts the weapon, grabbing the heavy hilt. Intrigued, she unsheathes the blade. It is made of long, lusterless black iron that seems to absorb all light. The blade tapers to a point at almost the length of her forearm. It does not appear to be very sharp. In fact, excepting the dark blade, the dagger seems to be largely ceremonial.

"Keep it close to you at all times. You'll need it to protect yourself; not all things can be hurt by fists or guns... not even _your_ fists. You know this better than most," the man says. He displays iron on a chain of silver, the flame, the eye, the star. Then he hides it again.

Ranma fingers her own silver necklace.

"Yes. I gave you that amulet, too," he says.

Ranma fixes the man with a dark glare. "What is your name? Why did you call me '_sensei'_? What do you know of my past?"

"Can't I play the mysterious benefactor?" he complains.

The girl's eyes don't waver.

"Fine," he says. "I am Gosunkugi Hikaru. I traveled with you and your father for the greater part of a year. You were studying magic, looking for a cure to a water-based gender-bender curse. I was simply studying magic and providing money for food, travel, food and more food. Speaking of which, I have a belated Christmas gift for you."

Gosunkugi pulls out an envelope and hands it to Ranma, who opens it up and peers inside. The girl's smile widens when she finds five all-you-can-eat gift certificates to a Chinese buffet near her home.

"_Domo arigato_!" she exclaims honestly.

Gosunkugi smiles. "I figured the dagger was already yours so I shouldn't make it the Christmas gift. Oh, and happy new year."

Ranma fixes him with her intense gaze again. "... and '_sensei'?_" she prompts.

Gosunkugi frowns. "Would '_you taught me_' suffice?"

Ranma shakes her head slightly, still staring him down.

The man returns her gaze evenly. "Very well, then," he says. "Your father wasn't a very honest man. Most of the magic we studied was in books stolen from evil cultists. Your father justified it as doing the right thing; _It's a martial artist's duty to smash evil cults,_ he said more than once. But after we were finished studying those books, we'd pawn them for traveling money and do our very best to outrun any problems."

Ranma nods with a smile on her face. She is enraptured by the story of her past. Gosunkugi's insult to her biological father doesn't even rile her.

"Those cultists would usually be quite upset and would often chase us for miles with swords, bows, even guns, and often in vehicles. But we survived. Your father was an expert at making himself scarce; I never once used my passport or ID in our travels, and you two didn't even carry any! However, sometimes those cultists would manage to track us down and show up months later in whatever country had become our newest stomping grounds. Further, several cults summoned demons after us and we had to destroy or banish those using magic and martial arts... though once they somehow managed to summon Happosai, who we couldn't destroy or banish despite our efforts.

"Anyhow, after one too many close calls, you decided to teach me some martial arts. Your father was opposed, but heh! I was quite motivated and already in good shape from all the running for my life. It didn't take long to teach me the basics."

Ranma's eyes brighten... she'd been looking for a good fight.

Gosunkugi panics. "No! I'm not nearly ready to spar evenly with you, though I wouldn't mind more instruction. I'll pay for it." He glances at the candy store. "Well, it's time for me to go... here's my card in case you decide to contact me." After handing her a card, he steps back into the shadows. They seem to harden, twist, and fold, wrapping themselves around him like a cloth, then he is gone.

Audrey's voice speaks from the candy store. "Ranma, what's taking you so long?"

Ranma quickly hides the dagger and envelope, picks up her skates, then turns to face Audrey. "Nothing. ... just thought I saw something in the alley," she answers carefully. She walks to her friend, stepping carefully to keep her socks clean... or at least from getting any dirtier.

Audrey gazes analytically at her friend for a moment, then smiles. "Want some bubblegum?" she asks, offering a stick. "I've already paid for it. Kate is still hunting for different candies."

"Thanks," Ranma answers, accepting the stick and popping it in her mouth. She lets Audrey lead her towards Kathryn, and finally looks at the card in her hand. In addition to a London address and phone number, it reads:

_Manty-corp _

_- for when the police don't believe you -_

She blows a big bubble.

Pop!

-oOo-

... fshpfhhsphshfhshhsspshf ...

Click.

Hermione turns off the television then looks at the tangle of limbs and covers on the ground. The girls had been up most of the night with a pile of badly subbed import martial arts films, and the last girl awake must have crashed before shutting everything down.

Hermione frowns at them in disapproval.

"They look so cute like that, don't they?" states Elinore, arriving from behind.

Kathryn lies in the center, arms and legs akimbo. One of her knees digs into Ranma's side, even as she pulls the small redhead close with an arm. Her other arm is trapped under Audrey. As they watch, Kathryn flops and twists around a bit into a position that looks even more uncomfortable for all three girls. Their blankets are tangled around their legs, having been kicked off during the night.

Hermione grimaces. "They look uncomfortable," she says after a moment.

"That too," Elinore replies, moving to lift the covers back into place.

Kathryn wakes with a start, yawns into her hand, then rubs her eyes. She looks at Hermione. "You're leaving today?"

Hermione nods and says, "In just a few hours."

"Can you show me a little magic before you go? Pleeease," Kathryn begs.

"No," Hermione says with a scowl. "For the last time, no, I'm not going to show you any magic! I'd get in trouble. And you're not even supposed to know about it, so just forget about it... literally."

"Oh! ... Well, then... Can you show me a little magic before you go? Pleeease," Kathryn begs again.

"No!"

"But last time you said that you said '_No_' for the last time," Kathryn argues, pouting. "Didn't she, Mrs. Granger?"

"I do believe she's right, dear," Elinore says with a small smile.

Hermione's hands tighten into claws, then she growls and stomps off to the kitchen.

When she returns a few minutes later, the other girls are already waking up. Gareth plods in behind her, a cup in his hand and bags under his eyes, looking far more bedraggled and tired than usual.

"Hey! Mr. Granger, you missed the one with the-," Kathryn throws a few punches and a kick, tearing the covers from the other girls while trying to show Gareth exactly what he missed.

"Huh?" Gareth asks.

"She means the one with the Japanese ninjas, the Chinese chef, the cowboy, and the nun," clarifies Audrey, stifling a yawn. "Either that or the one with the samurai vampires, the Japanese cops, the zombie warrior, and the priest."

"Ah," Gareth replies unenthusiastically. He brings the cup to his lips then frowns. After peering into it, he turns and shuffles his way back into the kitchen.

"Kiiaiaa!" Kathryn exclaims, throwing a final punch.

Ranma stirs and cracks open her eyes. "Straighten your wrist, Kate; you'd break it if you punched someone like that," she mutters. She sits up and looks around bleary-eyed. "_Ohayo gozaimas_," she yawns.

"_Ohayo,_" replies Elinore in her normal dulcet tones.

Ranma pushes herself to her feet. "I guess I'd better start breakfast," she says, yawning again. She begins trudging to the kitchen with a fraction of her normal energy.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of -" Elinore winces as Ranma collides with her husband in the doorway, instantly drenching the child under Gareth's fresh cup of scalding coffee.

Ranma pauses in the doorway, hissing under her breath in obvious pain.

"_Gomen_," Gareth mumbles wearily. Then he summons the energy to drag her into the kitchen adding, "Let's get you cleaned up and run cold water over that."

Hermione, Audrey, and Kathryn are left gaping at the kitchen doorway. Elinore turns to gaze at the children, a contemplative look on her face.

"Her hair, it just turned black..." says Audrey after a moment, breaking the silence.

"Well maybe it was really _black_ coffee," says Kathryn.

"That would take coffee with the consistency of paint. Not even my dad drinks coffee _that_ strong," Hermione argues, looking just as contemplative as her mother. "At least not on a normal morning," she adds drolly.

Elinore smiles at that, then sighs. "I suppose it's time to tell you one of Ranma's secrets," she says. Then she frowns and glares at the three girls sharply. "But you must promise not to let it harm your relationship with her; that would hurt her beyond measure."

The children quickly utter a chorus of promises under Elinore's scary scrutiny.

"Is this the transformation you mentioned when I first arrived?" Hermione asks. "Did Ranma just change into a boy?"

Elinore nods. "How did you guess?"

"_XX, XY, transformation,_ a little research... Ranma has a pretty good text on biology in her room," Hermione explains. "But I never figured you were talking about her until just now; I read about some frogs that -"

Hermione halts as Ranma returns with two bowls of water, red hair, a towel, and a resigned expression on her face, as though she's walking to the slaughter.

Kathryn takes one look at the smaller girl and immediately rushes to hug her tightly, forcing Ranma to struggle to avoid sloshing her bowls of water. "Don't worry, Ranma. We love you no matter what!" Kathryn says vehemently.

"... Really?" Ranma asks weakly.

Audrey nods as she takes the bowls from Ranma's hands, then joins the hug. "We're best friends. A little thing like turning into a boy won't drive us away," she says.

"Besides, now I know who to ask if I ever need a last minute boyfriend for a dance," Kathryn says with a grin.

Ranma smiles and lets herself lean on the taller girls, resting her head against Kathryn's chest.

Hermione watches, feeling envious once again, seeing Ranma with such dedicated friends. After a few seconds, she feels Elinore placing an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. They hold the position for minutes that seem like hours. Then Audrey voices Hermione's own questions... or at least a few of them.

"How do you change?" Audrey asks. "Can you show us?"

"Yeah, I've gotta see this!" Kathryn exclaims.

Ranma nods then moves the bowls of water to the coffee table.

"It has something to do with water?" Hermione asks curiously.

Ranma nods again. "Warm water changes me into a boy," she says. She dips her hands into a bowl, and the changes are almost instantaneous. Her hair darkens into black, her facial structure becomes subtly but perceptibly masculine, and she shrinks in height fractions of an inch. She is now a 'he'.

"Cold water changes you back?" Audrey guesses.

Ranma smiles and dips a hand into the second bowl. Again, the changes are almost instantaneous; he grows a fraction of an inch, his face becomes feminine, and his black hair fades into fiery red. He is now a 'she' – the redheaded Ranma with whom they are so familiar.

"What does it feel like?" asks Kathryn.

"Like getting wet. I hardly notice the change except -" Ranma blushes, embarrassed. "- _down there_. It's rather uncomfortable when I change into a boy while wearing panties."

The other three girls and Elinore blush at that revelation. They hadn't even considered it.

"How do you change?" Audrey asks, regaining her composure faster than the others.

"Magic, I guess," answers Ranma, shrugging.

"Hey! I've been wanting a demonstration of magic for two weeks, and you were there all along!" Kathryn complains.

Ranma stares at Kathryn for a long moment, as though about to answer. Then, suddenly, Ranma tackles and starts tickling the taller girl.

Kathryn's squeals and laughter quickly become a shrill plea for aid.

Gareth walks to the rescue carrying tea and a plate of biscuits for the ladies. Before they even make it to the coffee table, Kathryn and Ranma are off the ground with over half the biscuits in their hands and mouths. Gareth smirks at their antics then looks at Audrey and says, "We don't know why she changes. The only explanation we have is from the Ministry of Magic, that this is due to a magical accident over two years ago."

"Dad! She isn't even supposed to know about the Ministry of Magic," Hermione protests.

"Audrey and Kathryn are almost members of our family. They have a right to know, as much as anyone," argues Gareth. "Besides, I doubt Ranma could keep it from them, anyway."

Kathryn preens and Audrey flushes with delight at this revelation.

"Not even Aunt Liz and Uncle Dan are allowed to know," Hermione says, irritated, but she stops arguing after a hard look from her father. Turning to Ranma, she asks, "Were you born a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know," Ranma mumbles through a mouthful of biscuit. She suddenly looks at Elinore, who is glaring right back, then carefully chews and swallows before continuing. "I've been this way as long as I can remember," she adds.

"But Dad said it happened just a couple years ago."

"I don't have any memory from more than a few months ago, _oneesan,_" Ranma says darkly.

"Sorry. I forgot."

"... You have nothing to be sorry about, _oneesan_. It's just that -" Ranma frowns and shakes her head, cutting herself off then changing the subject. "I made a promise. _'oneesan'_ means 'honored elder sister', _oneesan_. Thanks for the help with the violin, by the way." Ranma smirks and adds, "I'm sure everyone appreciates it."

Kathryn, Audrey, Gareth, and Elinore all nod in accordance.

"You're welcome, I guess," says Hermione. "So you've been calling me 'big sis' all along?"

Ranma nods. "I'd like you to call me _'imoutosan'_," she says after a moment.

"And what does that mean?" Hermione asks.

Gareth answers this time. "It essentially means 'honored little sister', although it's more of a polite form, somewhat like 'mister' which derives from 'master' but is rarely used with such connotations. You'd know all this if you watched a few of those movies last night." He grumbles the last.

"I needed to sleep last night, and you should have, too, since you'll be driving me to King's Cross in an hour," Hermione argues. Then she looks at Ranma and asks teasingly, "Doesn't saying 'honored' seem a little cumbersome? And what if I don't particularly feel like honoring you?"

Ranma looks a little hurt by her answer. "You and Audrey and Kate and... _okaasan_ and _otousan_... are all I have, other than my art and that stupid violin," she says, looking at each person in tandem.

Elinore is glowing, and a smile comes to Gareth's lips. This is the first time Ranma has called her _'Mom'_ and him _'Dad'_. Although Japanese is not their own language, the adoptive parents recognize the words for what they are and what they mean. They know that, for Ranma, '_okaasan' _and '_otousan'_ have much more meaning than 'Mom' and 'Dad'.

Ranma's demeanor suddenly gains a terrific intensity. This time, they avert their eyes as Ranma gazes at them. "I don't know much about my previous life. I don't know what it takes to be a warrior at the age of six. But I do know that you are my family now. I would fight to protect you," she says. Even Gareth looks away as her eyes meet his. "If necessary, I would kill to protect you. It only seems right that I honor you, _oneesan._"

Hermione feels Ranma's hand lift her chin, forcing her to meet the redhead's terrible gaze. Something primal in her panics. She tries to look away with her eyes, but finds herself frozen, fixed, falling into the icy-blue waters.

Then Ranma releases her, letting her look away. The awe-inspiring aura vanishes, and Ranma adds, in a weak voice, "But you could call me _'imoutochan'_, if you would still have me as your sister, Hermione"

Hermione is left reeling, feeling stunned, appalled, hurt, loved, awe, fear, as if her heart had just been torn away then replaced backwards and upside down... a dozen emotions conflicting, clashing, warring for dominance. And she isn't the only one. Elinore and Gareth look especially distraught, and Audrey is as wide-eyed and stunned as Hermione. Only Kathryn gazes at Ranma with stars in her eyes, as though the redhead is her personal knight with a white horse and shining armor, or maybe a fiery-haired goddess to worship, or, considering Ranma's transformation, perhaps both at once.

Ranma, the child, the baby, the youngest of them all, had said she'd _kill_ for them if necessary. It was appalling; it was horrible; it makes Hermione feel _safe_ that someone of Ranma's _extraordinary_ capacities will be looking out for her, willing to _kill_ for her, when she most needs it, and she is disgusted that she feels that way. But it wasn't just the speech. Ranma's intensity was immense, terrifying, palpable. Hermione felt she could reach out and wrap it around herself like a blanket to ward away those who would harm her. It was inhuman, primal, powerful like Ranma's strength and agility, invoking a furious envy, fear, and a healthy respect.

And, for Hermione, there was more. Ranma had called her by name for the first time, and she felt as though she had lost something... something important, something special, something she didn't even know she had until she lost it... and when _that Ranma girl_ questioned her position as sister, it hurt, more than she ever would have expected.

Hermione snaps out of her stupor in time to see her adopted sister walking away, looking as though she had just gambled her heart and lost... which, in a way, she had. Ranma had just confessed her true feelings to everyone, and they were all still standing stupidly, lost in their thoughts as Hermione had been, not giving the emotionally vulnerable child the unconditional affection she needs.

Hermione reaches out and grabs the smaller girl into her arms, then buries her face in Ranma's red hair. "I'll be glad to have you as my sister, _imoutosan._"


	5. Summer Daze

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

**Started: ** March 28, 2005

**Last Update:** July 13, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

_**Last Chapter:** A child comes home. A banshee is tamed. An old man wobbles his tush. Dark men hide in the shadows, offering gifts, and talking around the bush. A man dies, but nobody mourns. A year dies, and another is born. Children grow taller. Relationships grow deeper. The sisters have met. The stage is now set... to move forward two years._

_Last Chapter Credits to: _Right Said Fred (I'm too sexy), B52's (Love Shack), REM (One I Love), Pink Floyd (Money).

**Chapter Four: Summer Daze**

**... two years later ...**

August 1993

You're gonna have fun whether you like it or not...

-oOo-

"Ranma; hey, Ranma! Get down here. Look at this!" Kathryn calls, pointing at something on the wall.

Ranma hops down from the fence and skates backwards in an arc before grinding to a halt at Kathryn's side.

The large bulletin board at which Kathryn points is covered with dozens of messages. Community bulletins specify sales, auctions, and upcoming club meetings. A poster targeted at youth gangs warns, _Carry a knife – slash YEARS from your life!_ A crayon help request by a child asks for help finding a lost dog; by the picture, the dog is stick-thin, green, and has lopsided eyes. A wanted poster depicts a scraggly fugitive with wild black hair and gray eyes.

Ranma peers at the flier that grabbed Kathryn's attention and smirks. It details a paired skating competition with a cash prize scheduled near the end of August.

Audrey comes to a stop near the two. "We're going to be late," she reminds them.

"I bet we could put together a good program, with music and everything. Wanna go?" Kathryn asks enthusiastically, still focused on the skating competition.

"Sure," Ranma answers perfunctorily. She tears the flier off the wall, stuffs it in a pocket, hops up to the fence, and begins skating away, backwards.

"Hey!" Kathryn protests as she struggles to catch up. "I was reading that. And what if someone else wants to come?"

"We're in a hurry," Ranma reminds her.

"You'll have to go as a boy," Audrey huffs. "And wouldn't it be like cheating?"

Ranma shrugs. "How so?" she asks.

"Well it's paired skating; it's obvious that it must be a boy and a girl!"

"I know that! I was just wondering why you consider it cheating," says Ranma.

Audrey makes a face and stares at Ranma for a moment. "That's obvious too, isn't it? You're so far beyond normal that it wouldn't be fair to the competition. I doubt any of _them _can skate backwards on a fence."

Ranma laughs. "I'll bet some of them can. It isn't that hard once you have the trick down. And of course it's unfair; after all, I'm the best!" She hops down as she reaches the end of the fence.

Kathryn drops an arm over Ranma's shoulder. "_We're _the best," she clarifies. Her eyes twinkle dreamily. "We'll trounce them all. We'll be the golden pair!"

For some unknown reason, Ranma shudders.

The three girls continue skating at top speed for several minutes before reaching their destination – a broken down, dingy little building with a huge overflowing dumpster in the nearest alley. Only a large, rotting, wooden sign and the posters on the wall identify it as a theater.

"We're here," Ranma announces. "And just on time, too."

"My belly hurts," complains Kathryn, clutching her side and breathing heavily.

"You didn't have to force down that fifth plate, you know," chastises Audrey.

"But all the all-you-can-eat diners near home have already banned us!" argues Kathryn.

Ranma grins in reminiscence. Good food, good friends, and good fights... who needs more? Of course, lacking the latter, she's had to make do with the best substitutes available. Ranma glances up at the worn down little theater. A large sign announces the newest feature, _Army of Darkness: The Medieval Dead_.

"But if we didn't spend so long eating, we wouldn't have had to hurry, and your tummy wouldn't hurt," Audrey replies. "Further, you would have had more time to eat if you hadn't gotten distracted by those boys."

"They were cute! And I only followed them for a few minutes!" Kathryn squeals, blushing. "Besides, we spent a _lot_ longer in that used bookstore."

"_That_ was time well spent." Audrey declares. She displays a sack in her right hand. "I've wanted this book in hardback ever since I watched the movie."

"How will you ever find _true love_? You like _books_ more than boys!" Kathryn accuses.

Ranma interjects, dramatically, "Wuv, tru wuv, bwings us togeda tooday..."

Audrey scowls at Ranma. "Boys are loud, messy, and noisy."

"- loud _and_ noisy? Who'd've thunk it."

Audrey, pointedly ignoring Ranma, lifts her book to her heart. "Books," she sighs wistfully, "will always be my one true love."

"Be careful," Ranma warns, suddenly barring Audrey's path with an arm. Ranma looks around. She peers into the alley and scrutinizes the dumpster. She gazes narrowly at an elderly stranger shuffling along the sidewalk. She scans the rooftops and searches the streets.

"What is it?" Kathryn asks, frightened, looking around for whatever spooked Ranma.

Ranma's head slowly swivels until she stares directly at Audrey. "You're starting to sound _just like Hermione,_" she pronounces solemnly.

Audrey thwacks Ranma with the book and gets only a grin in return.

Kathryn cracks up, laughing. "Come on! We need to buy tickets and get good seats," she announces, grabbing her friends.

"There shouldn't be any problem getting good seats. The movie has been in theaters for almost two months," Audrey says as she is dragged into the theater.

She is neither surprised nor particularly upset that the others ignore her.

Two hours later, the three girls come skating out of the theater, giggling and quoting to each other.

"Shop smart; shop S-Mart," laughs Audrey.

"Are all men from the future loud-mouthed braggarts?" Kathryn asks.

"Nope, just me, baby. Just me," Ranma replies. "And this is my BOOM-stick!"

Kathryn grins widely. "Klaatu, barada, nikto! Now you have to fight off an army of undead zombies," she says.

"_Undead _zombies?" Ranma asks, as though there is some other kind. "Not at all! You didn't sneeze, and you don't have an evil book."

Kathryn laughs. "That phrase is from _The Day the Earth Stood Still _where it was used to stop a giant robot. It has been used all over since then, even in _Tron_ and _Star Wars_, or so I've heard from geeks at school."

"Maybe the robot movie stole it from an evil book," suggests Ranma.

Audrey shudders. "I wonder how much of _Army of Darkness_ was based on reality."

Ranma fingers the ever-present iron amulet through her shirt.

Kathryn looks at the mousy girl as though she had grown a second head. "Evil books, time travel, mechanical hands, and armies of _undead _zombies... it's gotta be fantasy! Doesn't it?"

"Hermione's a witch and Ranma turns into a boy with a splash of hot water," Audrey says pointedly.

Kathryn blinks, dumbfounded for a moment. "Oh yeah. I hadn't really thought about it that way."

"Hello, ladies! What are you doing all the way out here?" a new voice cuts in.

"Hi, Jon!" Kathryn shouts, waving at him.

Officer Jon is in a parking lot across the street with a pad and pen, slapping a ticket on a green muscle car with _MONEY_ blazing across the license plate. The three girls carefully look both ways before crossing to meet the officer.

"We had to come all the way out here to find a theater still showing _Army of Darkness_," says Audrey.

"Isn't that movie rated fifteen?" Jon asks, obviously disturbed that three children no older than twelve just waltzed in and watched it.

"Umm... yeah," says Kathryn.

"How's work?" asks Ranma. "Bust any bad boys recently?"

"No, not today. As you can see, I'm busy writing parking tickets. It's dreadfully boring work out here," Officer Jon says, smiling at the children, "but boring's the way I like it. There are worse places to patrol – places where a smart copper carries a gun and wears his armor. What about you? How was France?"

Ranma frowns. "I'd rather have stayed here," she says bluntly, her manner bearing no further questioning.

Jon glances at the other girls, but they shrug in confusion. Getting no answers, he walks the few steps to his patrol car and reaches into the window. "Well, since you're here, I can give you your mail and mail key. I was planning on swinging by this evening," Jon says, lifting out a large package and handing it to Ranma. "Two of those are yours."

"Thanks," Ranma answers. She immediately sorts through the pile, pulling aside the letters addressed to her and handing them to Kathryn and Audrey. She chucks the cruft into the nearby skip, keeping only a handful of letters.

"That one came to me by owl; it was the oddest thing," Jon is explaining, pointing at the letter in Audrey's hand. "I guess it somehow knew I was responsible for your mail."

Kathryn shouts in glee. "Ranma, you passed!" she declares, waving around the letter she was handed, already torn from its envelope. "You got a B in math and a C in science," she says. "Hmm... but the science score breaks down to a C in biology, a D in chemistry, and a B in physics."

Ranma frowns and grabs the letter from Kathryn, looking at it intently.

"What are those?" Jon asks, curious.

"Those would be Ranma's GCSE scores," says Audrey. "We'll be taking ours in three more years. She's five years ahead in those subjects, or at least she was; Ranma won't be allowed to advance in science until she has better scores."

"I should've studied redox reactions," Ranma says morosely, stuffing her scores into her pocket.

"You should have studied, period," corrects Audrey, earning a glower from Ranma.

"Afraid of falling behind, Ranma? Won't be quite so far ahead of the rest of us?" Kathryn teases.

Ranma suddenly grins wickedly and begins wiggling her fingers, reaching out towards Kathryn's belly and neck.

"No!" Kathryn squeals, moving to hide behind Audrey. She peers over the brunette's shoulder. "So, what's in the other letter, Audrey?"

"Unlike you, I don't tear into other people's mail the instant it's in my hands," retorts Audrey. She turns to Ranma. "May I?" she asks.

Ranma nods and the girls crowd around Audrey as she breaks the wax seal and opens the letter. It's blank. They all stare at it in confusion.

"Invisible ink?" Audrey asks after a moment.

"I think... here, let me see it," Ranma says, accepting the letter from Audrey's hands.

Golden script shimmers into existence as she touches it. She reads a few lines silently.

"Cool!" Kathryn crows, looking over her shoulder. "But it looks kinda weird. What's it say?"

Ranma smiles at her friend then looks back at the letter and reads aloud,

"_Dear Ranma Granger_,

"_We trust you enjoyed your vacation in France." _Ranma grunts noncommittally.

"_By opening this letter, our offices have been alerted of your return to London. Due to your unique circumstances, we must test your qualifications to join your sister at Hogwarts. _

"_Officials from the Wizard's Office of Immigration will visit this afternoon. Please be home at no later than five o'clock for the tests. If you qualify, you will receive your official invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry-_ !"

Ranma excitedly shouts the last in delight and bounces on her toes.

Kathryn throws her arms around Ranma, pulling her into a hug, and Audrey quickly joins in hugging them both. _If you go, I'll miss you,_ one of them whiffles into Ranma's red hair. Then they all are sniffling, hugging, and shedding tears of joy and sorrow.

Ranma wipes a tear from her eye and continues reading.

"_Sincerely, _

"(signed) _Bartemius Crouch_

"_Head – Department of International Magical Cooperation_

"_P.S. Under the International Confederation of Wizard's Statute of Secrecy, you are required to keep the existence of wizards, witches, and the magical world secret from all but your immediate family._

"_P.P.S. Under article XIV-b of the 1992 revised Muggle Protection Act, you are not allowed possession of magical artifacts unless and until you are officially a witch. Given that this is not yet the case, this message will self-destruct in three... two... one..."_

The message disintegrates.

"So much for keeping a secret," utters Audrey, watching the fine dust drift away in the wind.

Kathryn nods. "I wish I was a witch," she says wistfully.

"So... would you ladies like a ride home?" asks Jon, looking at his watch.

The three girls nod and file into his patrol car.

-oOo-

Knock. Knock.

Hermione shifts in the cushioned recliner and lowers her book. She turns her head to the stairs and calls loudly, "Mom! Dad! Someone's at the door!"

"Get it honey, we'll be down in a minute."

Hermione groans, sets her book aside, then opens the door.

Two men stand outside, both wearing wizard robes. The first is fat, layered in folds of mahogany red. He stands up straight, smoothing out the folds of his robe with his beefy hands. The second slouches in his overly large green robes. He flashes a bright grin at Hermione and sticks out a hand.

"Name's Ethan, Ethan Fulke, and this is-"

"Mr. Waldgrave," The big one cuts in, holding himself in a dignified manner. "We are from the Ministry of Magic, in official capacity from the Wizard's Office of Immigrations. We are here to test Miss Ranma Granger."

Hermione frowns. "Ranma isn't here right now."

"Well then..." Walter says, turning to leave.

Elinore's voice drifts from the hall. "Come on in! I'm sure Ranma will show up soon."

Hermione opens the door wider, inviting the two in. Ethan flows through the door, quickly scanning his surroundings with interest. Mr. Waldgrave waddles after him, his girth barely clearing the doorway.

"We're awfully busy. Perhaps another time would be better?" Waldgrave offers.

"We haven't had any work all week," Ethan says dryly, staring at his partner incredulously.

Gareth makes his way down the stairs. "The girls will be here soon. It's almost time for supper."

"Go ahead and sit down. Would either of you like some tea?" Elinore asks.

Mr. Waldgrave sets himself down carefully into the recliner. The springs creak under his weight. "Yes, please."

"Nah," Ethan replies, plopping down in a chair.

Elinore heads to the kitchen.

They sit in silence for a moment.

Hermione asks, "What method are you going to use?"

"Pardon me?" asks Mr. Waldgrave, shifting in the chair.

"Sorry; I meant to say, how are you going to test whether Ranma has magic? I did some research of my own; it took me _days_ to find anything. Almost _all_ the books just talk about the ledger at Hogwarts that automatically writes down the names of all wizards born in Britain, and _barely any _of them say anything about how to determine whether someone is a born witch without it and _none_ say anything about wizards that are not born wizards."

"Ah... I see." Mr. Waldgrave says. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Ethan stands. "I'm glad you asked," he says enthusiastically, whipping out his wand. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tiny suitcase the size of his palm, and sets it on the table. With a flick of his wand, it grows to full size.

Mr. Waldgrave coughs loudly, "Well you see we didn't really have the time to fully-"

"- It was actually quite a brilliant idea if I do say so myself. One of my better ones, really...-"

"-the matter. Its really quite embarrass-"

"Ta da!" Ethan exclaims throwing open the trunk. Within, wands of willow, cedar, and birch are jammed in next to an old _Cleansweep 7_. Packed carefully to one side is a small glass ball with odd colors swirling within. A set of seven rings floating lazily within one another is crammed next to what appears to be a bright-yellow grip measuring device and a little clown doll.

The clown turns to face Hermione and narrows its eyes, but when Hermione looks again it appears wide-eyed and innocent.

Hermione scowls at it, and at the collection.

Gareth raises an eyebrow.

Waldgrave buries his face behind the tea cup Elinore hands him.

"Ah, did that clown just glare at my daughter?" Elinore asks, obviously worried and more than a little nervous. When nobody answers, she discreetly leaves the room.

"You see," Ethan explains proudly, "every last one of these devices responds to a wizard's magic. Hence, if the girl can operate any single one of them, it means she is a witch."

Gareth nods with understanding. "Simple but effective. How does this one work?" he asks, reaching for the clown doll.

"Well, it-"

"Die, Muggle! Ha ha ha!" the clown laughs at Gareth. "You'll never defeat me!" A rotating saw shimmers into existence in its hand. Whirrrrrr.

Gareth throws it to the ground, where Ethan discreetly steps on it.

"Well... I was going to say that it only attacks Muggles," Ethan says with a wide grin. "I- ah- forgot about the saw blade."

"And _maybe_ Muggle-born," Mr. Waldgrave adds. "I _told _you we should've left that one behind."

The door flies open, and the doorway jams as three girls try to fit through all at once.

"We aren't late, are we?" Kathryn asks.

"No, you're just on time," says Hermione, glaring daggers at the clown under Ethan's foot, then at Ethan. "Mr. Fulke, was it? I'm pretty sure devices like that are illegal under the Muggle Protection Act..."

"But it's my son's fav-"

"Get that thing out of my house," demands Gareth.

"What happened?" asks Ranma.

"Oh, nothing..." says Ethan, waving his wand at his foot. When he steps away, the clown is gone.

"Wow! Are you wizards? Is that a magic broom? Look at all this!" Kathryn immediately runs towards the trunk, but is stopped and swept up by Gareth.

Ranma frowns. "What's going on?" she demands.

"Ethan's little _toy_ just attacked Dad," says Hermione, scowling at Ethan.

Ranma's eyes narrow and she glares at Ethan. He loses his prevalent grin. She steps towards him menacingly, and he falls back a step. "You're lucky he isn't hurt," she says icily.

Ethan Fulke gulps.

Mr. Waldgrave clears his throat. "... Perhaps we should return later and do this in a more... controlled fashion?" he suggests.

Ranma glances at him. "No. I want to test now," she says.

"Besides," Ethan says, regaining his grin, "that was the most dangerous thing in there."

"Let me down," complains Kathryn, struggling in Gareth's grip.

Gareth sets her down. "Don't touch anything in the trunk," he warns her.

"Who are these girls?" Mr. Waldgrave asks gruffly.

"I'm Kathryn, she's Ranma, and she's Audrey," Kathryn answers, identifying each with a gesture. "So, how do these tests work?"

"Are you Muggles?" Mr. Waldgrave asks.

"You ask that as though a true Muggle could answer," Gareth says testily.

"There's only one way to find out!" Ethan declares. He tosses Kathryn the yellow grip-device. When Gareth glowers at him, he adds, "That one isn't dangerous at all... err... unless you try to swallow it or something. It measures a wizard's magical strength. It takes magic to squeeze it. Go ahead and try," he encourages... pointlessly.

Even as he speaks, Kathryn is already squeezing it as hard as she can, with both hands. The needle has budged a little, but is still well within the '_Squib'_ range.

"Sorry, but I don't think you have what it takes," says Audrey teasingly.

"There we go! Problem solved! She's a Muggle, alright!" Ethan declares.

"May I try?" Hermione asks.

Kathryn hands her the device.

Mr. Waldgrave says, "If they're Muggles, they shouldn't be here."

Ethan shrugs. "It isn't as if they didn't recognize us," he says. He glances at the girls. "Besides, if they ever start shooting their mouths off about it, we can just send in a team of obliviators and have their memory modified. You wouldn't make us do _that_, would you?"

Kathryn and Audrey blanch and shake their heads.

"Well then! There's no problem."

Hermione is able to squeeze the device to a middling score. She uses both hands, and it moves up to '_Wizard!'._ She hands it to Ranma.

"Crush it for me!" Kathryn says enthusiastically.

Ranma grins and delightedly accepts the device. She squeezes. The needle tears past the highest rank, '_Dumbledore'_, before the whole device is crushed to a pulp in her hands. Painted wooden splinters and metal springs clatter off the ground.

Ethan and Mr. Waldgrave stare at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"My toy," Ethan laments.

Mr. Waldgrave stands up. "Well, I think that does it," he says, pulling an envelope from his robes.

Hermione shakes her head. "Ranma can do that to _anything_. Concrete... steel... _you_... it doesn't prove she has magic," she says, directing a glare at Ethan.

Ethan stares at Hermione for a moment, then straightens his shoulders and heads back to the trunk. "Please don't squeeze this one," he says, handing Ranma the small glass orb.

All the colors in the orb immediately die out, leaving only a dark mist.

"_That's_ not supposed to happen," Ethan says, taking the orb back from Ranma. He shakes it a few times, but it remains dark. "You broke it..." he whines. He turns back to his trunk, and lifts out the floating rings. His lower lip trembles a bit, and he puts them back. He digs around a little more before finally lifting out the _Cleansweep 7_. "Listen carefully; _Don't break it_," he says, setting it on the ground.

"Hey! I didn't have anything to do with the _last_ one," Ranma protests.

"You still have that old thing?" Mr. Waldgrave asks.

"I'll have you know I was an excellent beater, and I have a lot of good memories with this broom. Now just watch. Up!" Ethan commands, and the broom wobbles and rises tiredly to his hand.

Kathryn laughs and claps delightedly.

Ethan sets the broom back down. "Now you do it," he says. "_And don't break it!"_

Ranma stands over the broom. "Up!" she commands. The broom doesn't even wobble. Ranma glares at it and it seems to twitch a little...

Mr. Waldgrave huffs. "That broom only listens to you, after all these years." He sticks a hand over it and commands "Up!" but gets no more response than Ranma.

"It's just faithful!" Ethan defends. He picks up the broom and carefully packs it back into the trunk. The broom shrinks on its way in. Then he sighs and pulls out the three wands.

"I still don't like this idea," Mr. Waldgrave says.

"Oh, hush. We won't get in trouble. Wands often react to wizards," Ethan says. He begins to hand the wand to Ranma, then pauses. "Just don't point it at _anyone_, and don't say _anything_," he warns.

"Like _Abracadabra?_" Kathryn asks.

Ethan grits his teeth. "Yes," he says after a moment. "Especially that."

Ranma accepts the wand, points it towards a wall, and flicks it. Dark sparks fly from the wand, float through the air, and splash against the wall.

"We have success!" Ethan declares. He snatches the wand back and packs it away. In a moment, the trunk is closed, shrunk, and back in his pocket.

Mr. Waldgrave hands the envelope to Ranma. "Okay, _now_ we can go," he says, walking to the door.

Elinore rushes in and glares at the wizards. "What happened to my wall?" she demands.

Everybody stares at her for a moment, then at the wall. There is no apparent harm to it.

"What happened, dear?" Gareth asks.

Elinore doesn't answer. Instead, she stares at the wall. "I could've sworn..." she mutters. She walks back through the door. "GET IN HERE NOW!"

Everyone obeys. Even Mr. Waldgrave huffs and waddles into the next room.

They turn to look at the wall that has Elinore so upset, and find themselves staring at what appears to be a huge hole torn into the wall, twice the size of Mr. Waldgrave. Through it, they can clearly see the room they just exited.

Elinore again demands, "Now, what happened to my wall?"

Kathryn runs to the other room, then bounces back and forth through the doorway. "Cool!" she declares. "It's a one-way wall!" She tries to put her hand through the hole... and succeeds, then tries to pull it back... unsuccessfully. "Wicked!" she says, pushing the rest of the way through.

"Ha ha! Now this is interesting," Ethan declares, clapping his hands together. "It really is a one-way wall!" He pauses, considers, then adds, "Or maybe it's a one-way hole; the magic would be intrinsically different, but the effect would be similar."

"Fix it!" Elinore commands. "Now!"

Kathryn quickly returns to the room, then runs laughing through the hole again, dragging a reluctant Audrey behind her. Ranma simply gazes at the hole, as though suspicious of it.

"I'm afraid we've never heard of a spell quite like this one," Mr. Waldgrave says, fidgeting under Elinore's angry stare. "And it's really not our department. We'll... uh... send some people from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to check it out," he adds, backing away. He steps through the hole and waddles towards the door.

"I wish I knew how to do that," Ethan adds wistfully, nodding in appreciation at the wall.

Elinore glares at Mr. Waldgrave's retreating back, then turns to Ethan.

Ethan grins at Elinore. "I'd _pay_ to have that," he declares. He looks at Ranma. "If you ever figure out how to repeat that, you'll make a small fortune. Just consider the use in defense and plumbing! But, I really must go," he says. Pop! He vanishes.

Mr. Waldgrave, still visible at the doorway through the hole in the wall, grumbles something about etiquette and protocol then also disapparates.

-oOo-

Ranma follows Hermione as she hurries through the Leaky Cauldron, and arrives at a brick wall in the back. Hermione taps a brick with her wand. The bricks in the wall whirl, glide, and slide away to display the greatest wizarding supermarket in the United Kingdom... largely abandoned to the bad weather and early hour. Beyond, to one side lies a pile of cauldrons, dully reflecting the overcast sky. Opposite, an old man hurriedly hangs tarps over bundles of feathers, dried lizards, and other disgusting ingredients.

Hermione steps through the entrance. She glances back. "Come on," she says gruffly.

Ranma follows her sister, then turns to watch the entrance slide shut behind her.

They are alone.

Gareth dropped them off before heading to his office. _Take care of your sister,_ he said to his girls, giving each a big hug. Kathryn and Audrey weren't allowed to come. Despite suffering the synchronized puppy-dog-eyes of Ranma and Kathryn, Gareth had managed to put his foot down. He agreed with Hermione that Diagon Alley is not a place for _Muggles_ to enter as tourists.

"Come _on!_" Hermione insists. "We need to go to Gringotts."

"Why so grumpy, '_neesan_?" Ranma inquires, turning to face her sister. "We aren't in a hurry."

Hermione scowls. "Look up! It's going to rain!" she shouts. "And I was planning to come with all my friends but _you _kept insisting we come as early as possible. And it's even a weekday; Mom and Dad couldn't come either!"

Ranma smiles at the roiling clouds, unconcerned at the possibility of rain. She almost takes a deep breath, but stops to the odor of rotten eggs and cabbage wafting from the apothecary. She wrinkles her nose. Then Ranma faces Hermione and grins wickedly. "You didn't want to come earlier? Were you satisfied with re-reading those books with that smiling dandy on the cover?"

Hermione grimaces in obvious disgust. "I haven't touched Gilderoy Lockhart's books all summer. I should burn them," she huffs as they begin walking towards Gringotts.

Ranma laughs. "You're just upset to learn that an author might actually _lie_ in a book. But you could never burn a book, not even to save your life."

Hermione doesn't answer; she puffs her cheeks a little, staunchly ignores Ranma's comment, and continues to plod along the cobblestone road.

"You had a _big _crush on him..." Ranma teases.

Hermione shudders. "_Had_ being the operative word. He seemed so _perfect_ in those books... so handsome, winking and smiling as though it were just for me," she admits. Then she levels a penetrating glare at Ranma. "But it was all a lie. Like _you_. Who'd guess that _sweet, pretty, little, perfect, genius Ranma who cooks and cleans too_ would be such a brat and hellion? How _did_ I survive France with you?"

Ranma smiles prettily. "Oh. Whenever it got too bad, you just focused your thoughts elsewhere," she says, her voice all bubbly. "... in Egypt! _Oh, Ron! Oh, how I wish you -_"

"I never said that! And I do not love Ronald Weasely!" Hermione shrieks, face flushed in rage and blush. She suddenly scans the area and looks relieved when she finds the two people staring at her are too old to care or meddle. "We're just friends," she reiterates.

"I never said you weren't, _oneesan_. Perhaps thou dost protest too much?" Ranma replies, grinning. "Although it hardly matters how _you_ feel," she adds dismissively.

Hermione displays a moment of relief, then she whips around and frowns at her sister. "Why not?" she demands.

"Well, you'll never get him to notice you until you grow a little," Ranma answers, lifting her own budding breasts in her hands. "You're even flatter than I am!"

"Arrgh," Hermione growls. She bats at her sister a few times, but Ranma dodges away like the wind, laughing delightedly.

"Put your hips into it, '_neesan_," Ranma suggests, poking and prodding to correct her sister's form. "That's better! ... No! You're doing it wrong again."

A sudden flash of light and resounding crack of thunder ends the scuffle. Hermione and Ranma dash the last few meters into the Gringotts lobby, just beating the thrum of intense rain.

A few goblins frown at the pair in what is either distaste or their normal facial expression. With the exception of a scraggly man being escorted to a mining cart and an elderly woman slowly counting out bits of brass to a supremely bored and frustrated looking younger goblin, the lobby is empty of patrons.

Hermione wastes no time approaching one of the available tellers. "Muggle money exchange, please," she says, lifting her purse to the table. "What's the current exchange rate?"

"A galleon is five and twelve hundredths pounds with a three percent commission on the exchange – minimum of seven sickles," the goblin answers nasally.

Hermione pulls out a fist-sized roll of high-denomination bank notes, at which the goblin stares greedily. She counts them out then requests portions in Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. The goblin efficiently executes the exchange.

"There are gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and brass Knuts," Hermione explains to Ranma, pointing to each pile in tandem. "There are seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, which seems really hard, but in practice simply isn't an issue. Mom and Dad told me the currency system that they used when they were my age is just as confusing."

Hermione spends a few seconds dividing the piles of each denomination in half. "Buy everything you need first, then keep some of it for school, especially the Sickles," she advises.

"Is it real gold?" Ranma asks.

The goblin drawls, "All Gringotts Galleons are made with real gold, though we cannot speak for other banks. Now, will you please take your business elsewhere?"

Hermione drops her share into her purse then hoists it to her shoulder. Ranma simply pockets hers. They walk towards the lobby entrance. It is still raining heavily outside.

"They're made _with_ real gold, but they aren't pure. If they were pure gold, they'd be worth about eighty pounds each, not five," Hermione explains. "I read all about it in _Great Greed: Goblins and Gold._ Once upon a time, Galleons were pure gold. The goblins liked it that way, for they love gold, especially in its purest form, and there was no form purer than the Galleon."

Ranma rolls her eyes. "You memorized this?" she asks.

Hermione shakes her head. "I only read it twice. Anyway, then humans started trading with the goblins. The humans didn't love the gold; they loved only the wealth it represents, and the amenities that can be purchased with it. So crafty wizards soon began melting the Galleons down, mixing them with other metals, and minting new coins. It was easy to do with magic. If the wizards were careful, and nobody caught them, this effectively multiplied their wealth. Unfortunately for the humans, the goblins did catch them, and there is one thing that goblins love almost as much as their gold – and that is _war_."

Ranma grins and settles down to listen. So far it sounds like a good story.

"In one of the more famous cases, the purity was only one thousandth normal in almost a million coins. A goblin war party had approached a small Muggle mining town bordering the Swiss Alps and the Rhine, and demanded a million Galleons from them as a payment for the crimes of humankind. You see, the goblins didn't blame the few black-hat counterfeiters for the crime of devaluing the Galleon; they blamed all of humanity.

"The people of the town didn't have a clue why the goblins were upset. Most didn't even know what a goblin was before the goblins showed up. What they did know is that they couldn't take on the goblin war party. What they did have was a few resident wizards, enough gold for a thousand Galleons, and a very stupid idea. They begged for some time, and over the next week they _made_ a million Galleons. Magic maintained their golden glitter. They gave the gold to the goblin war party in a big featherweight trunk, and sent them on their way. Of course, the goblin war chief demanded proof of purity before leaving, but the people had made a few real Galleons, and used these to demonstrate the purity.

"That night, the wiser people of the village packed up and left, encouraging as many to come with them as they could. A few days later the village was razed and destroyed in what began one of the largest human-goblin wars in history.

"War was waged for years before humans finally hashed out an agreement with Lord Gringotts of the goblins. This agreement established the Sixteenth Standard, in which gold purity is set to one-sixteenth in the Galleon, which was about average at the time. It also established the first bank of Gringotts and the cooperation of wizards with Gringotts goblins to prevent counterfeiting. That cooperation has since expanded into such things as curse-breaking for Gringotts as a profession, which is what Ron's eldest brother does.

"Unfortunately, the agreement did _not_ set a standard mass for the Galleon, and crafty wizards soon began cutting coins into quarters, using magic to reshape them, enlarge them, and make them heavier. If they were careful, they could do all that without disturbing the anti-counterfeiting charms of the age, and since the coins were still a sixteenth pure..."

Ranma gets restless as Hermione's story shifts into a lecture. Hermione prattles on about the wars over Galleon mass, then eventually the Silver wars. To Ranma, it seems these Goblins are simply looking for more excuses to fight, which is certainly an attitude Ranma can sympathize with.

Ranma's attention wanders...

Outside, the rain has slowed but continues as a heavy drizzle. The earlier downpour left its mark in the form of giant puddles in the cobblestone road. Tiny splashes rise from the surface as each raindrop strikes.

The old woman finishes counting brass Knuts to the bored young goblin. That goblin takes the whole pile, dumps it into the funnel atop a huge, complicated-looking machine, then reads the number it prints at the bottom. After comparing the figure to one on another parchment, he nods then returns to the woman, obviously restraining himself from yelling at her for wasting his time. A few elder goblins watch this interaction closely from their elevated positions.

Other goblins are busy doing accounting or whatever it is they do when they don't have patrons.

Ranma returns to watching her sister's lips move, slowly, up and down. Her tongue and overly large teeth flash as she speaks. Sound escapes, as does the meaning. It's just another lecture. What did I do to deserve this? ... a memory, two echoes, one voice, two languages, one meaning... _I'm better built to boot! _and_ You're even flatter than I am!._

Oh. That.

Being squashed with a table wouldn't be so bad right now. At least it's over quickly.

The memory fades away, like a waking dream.

For Ranma, lectures are hell. Once upon a time, she thought school would be interesting... but even on that very first day, her mind began to wander. Mrs. Pearson called it Attention Deficit Disorder. Mr. Ogden called it a discipline problem. Ranma calls it getting bored, but, if she must choose, she leans towards Mr. Ogden's description. She doesn't like the idea of having a _disorder_. She likes the idea that some dedicated training would fix it. However, given that she spent the better part of two years on the wrong side of an insane asylum's cell, she realizes her attitude is definitely suspect.

"Ranma? You _are_ listening, aren't you?" Hermione suddenly growls, looking angry.

"Huh?" Ranma asks, trying to recall the last few minutes. She fails. "Sorry, _'neesan_. I zoned out there for a minute. Did you ask me something?"

"Well, I guess I couldn't expect any better from Harry or Ron," Hermione says with a sigh. She loses her offended posture. "I asked how you just dropped several handfuls of coins into your pocket. I just noticed that your pants aren't sagging or bulging at all."

Hermione hoists her heavy purse back to her shoulder in emphasis.

"Oh, that... I don't know how I do it. It's like lifting my arm. I just do it," Ranma answers. "I did it with my dagger, first, completely on accident; I didn't even notice until I tried to find it later."

"Your _dagger_!" Hermione shrieks, unnecessarily loudly. She glances around, notices a few goblins giving her the hairy eye, then hisses at her sister, "You aren't carrying it _now_, are you? You _do _know that it's illegal to carry a weapon -"

"Yeah, yeah. Carry a knife, slash years from your life – I've seen the posters," Ranma answers haughtily. "But my whole _body_ is my weapon. What are they going to do? Dis_-arm_ me?" Ranma releases a short half-laugh, half-snort then reaches deep into her pocket... impossibly deep... shoulder deep. "Anyhow, I've been practicing with bigger things," she adds, rummaging around. After a minute, she withdraws a large, canvassed easel and sets it on the ground.

Hermione stares, mouth agape and eyes wide.

The canvas contains a half-finished picture of a bright, orange sunset over a rippling lake. Trees on the opposite bank reflect in the waters, as do clouds, blending into mauve, all in a bright, impressionist style. Gazing upon the image suffuses Ranma with a feeling of warmth on this dreary day, despite being only half finished.

Ranma smiles. "I forgot I was carrying this until you reminded me. I ought to take it back to Kate. She has me to carry it around so she can capture any good scenes no matter where we are," Ranma explains. "She finishes them later, and auctions those she doesn't give away. Finished, this one's worth two-hundred pounds, easily..." Ranma trails off. Then she smirks and adds, "Of course she'd blow it all on candy, clothing, and computer upgrades. If you want it, I'm sure she'll give it to you."

Hermione nods absently, but catches herself. "I shouldn't," she laments. "Not when..." She trails off and turns to face Ranma. "This is the lake at Headwings! You've been carrying this around since before we went to France?"

Ranma nods.

"Even through the airports?" Hermione asks, examining the metal joints.

Ranma nods again.

Hermione gazes disapprovingly at her sister, and, for a moment, Ranma expects her to bring up the dagger again. But Hermione surprises her. "And you never _once_ offered to carry our luggage?" she demands.

Ranma blinks. "Elinore asked me to hold hers. You could've asked."

Hermione frowns, then huffs a long sigh and turns away. "Come on. It's stopped raining, and we need to purchase our supplies," she says monotonously, stepping throuh the Gringotts arch.

"'_Neesan_, wait up! I'll bet there are all sorts of wizard things that do a much better job," Ranma calls. But her sister is already gone. It takes Ranma almost two minutes to pack the easel back in her pocket without damaging the painting. Then she dashes after her sister.

It takes only moments to find her. The elderly woman who earlier was slowly counting Knuts to the unfortunate teller has trapped Hermione in conversation just outside Gringotts... and is monologuing at her. Hermione, unwilling to be rude, simply can't escape.

Ranma almost laughs. Then the old woman notices her.

"Where are your parents, girl?" the old lady asks, sweeping Ranma into her monologue. "You had best run to them quickly. Haven't you heard? A _murderer_ escaped Azkaban! He could be anywhere. He could strike at any time. He could claim _you_ as his next victim! Why aren't you with your parents? Did they let you travel alone? At a time like this? When I was your age, a parent would be put in stockades for being so irresponsible. Or are you a runaway, girl? Hiding from your mother? If I were your mother, I'd put you on a leash – one of those magic ones that _zap_ you every time you wander too far. Hey! Don't leave while I'm talking to you! How rude! Why, in my day- ... Hmm. They must be running to their parents, just like I asked. That's novel. ... Oh! What a beautiful dog."

Behind them, a scraggly black dog steps out of the shadowy Gringotts entrance. It gazes at the backs of the fleeing children, perhaps wondering how the little one picked up the taller one. Eventually it shrugs, or at least manages a close approximation for a dog, and slinks off to Knock Turn Alley.

"Thanks for the save," Hermione says gratefully after Ranma releases her.

"No problem, _'neesan_. So what's this about a murderer?"

"That," Hermione cringes, "would be Sirius Black. He escaped the wizard's prison, Azkaban, where he was held for killing twelve Muggles and a wizard named Peter Pettigrew twelve years ago. It was all in the Daily Prophet a few weeks back... but don'tLetMomAndDadKnow, okay?"

Ranma peers curiously at her older sister, and pokes her with a finger. "So there _is_ a devious bone in that body of yours, eh?" she says. "So... why _shouldn't_ I tell Gareth and Elinore? They have a right to know about something like this."

Hermione grimaces, shamefaced. Then she counters. "You don't ever tell them where you're going when _you_ disappear. They have a right to know that, too."

Ranma frowns. "I don't tell them because not even _I_ know where I'm going, or what I'm going to do. I usually pick a random direction, find a secluded place, and perform katas or practice the violin. If I end up away from the city lights, I might lie down and gaze at the stars. But they don't worry because _I_ can take care of myself, even in the rougher parts of London. I know to look both ways, to say No to strangers with candy, and how to defend myself against attack. They don't worry because they know I'll be back. What's your excuse?"

"They worry. They've just learned to live with it," Hermione states, meeting Ranma's eyes. She sighs and continues. "I guess I don't tell them because I'm afraid they'll pull me from school. Hogwarts _isn't _a _safe_ place. Compared to the things I've already experienced, Sirius Black small-fry. Last year alone I was petrified by a basilisk for three weeks and turned into a cat-girl for five."

It's Ranma's turn to cringe. "You turned into a c-c- that thing that rhymes with rat and eats them too?"

"I did _not _eat _rats_! ... But I did have a large appetite for tuna," Hermione says. She frowns for a moment at her sister, then her lips widen into a devious grin. "That's right... You're an ailurophobe, aren't you?"

"Ai-lu-ro-what?"

"You're afraid of cats. Well, then... if you promise not to tell Mom and Dad, I promise not to buy a _cat_. Just think... a _cat_ in the house, _all summer_...a _cat _in the car with you, when Dad comes to pick us up, unless, of course, you decide to walk."

"You'd do that!" Ranma asks, appalled.

"Of course. I was planning to purchase an owl but, well, the Magical Menagerie is just next door, and I _really_ think you deserve it anyway – _for France_."

"Fine, '_neesan_," says Ranma dejectedly. "I promise. But you can't use that against me again, and you have to tell me more about school ... I never thought you'd stoop to extortion."

Hermione laughs. "With you bringing back the banshee anytime _you_ want something? I'll make a special exception, just for you," she says, patting Ranma on the head. She grabs her sister's hand and the two trot to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.

"Well, I've been bursting to tell someone all this time. But... what should I tell you first? The story about the troll, Snape, Quirrel, the three-headed dog named _Fluffy_, and the plot by an evil dark lord to gain life and immortality? Or maybe I should tell you about the basilisk in the basement, polyjuice potion, and an evil diary by the same evil dark lord invented in yet _another_ attempt to gain immortality."

Hermione ponders the predicament while she orders two mugs of hot chocolate.

Ranma grins. As opposed to lectures, she is always ready to listen to a good story whether it be about armies of darkness, samurai vampires, goblin wars, or even about lions pushing their cubs off a cliff... the latter is especially good if it stops there, like a horror story with a happy ending. A story about about an evil, powerful, dark lord trying to gain immortality and getting foiled by inept little children more than qualifies.

Hermione adds thoughtfully, "Of course, I haven't actually seen the dark lord. Harry's the only one that actually saw him. So maybe I should just leave that part out..."

"_Nooo_," Ranma complains. "If it's part of the story, you _have_ to tell it."

Hermione smirks at her sister. "But there are so many other stories too... Maybe I should start with some more common stories about moving staircases, magic mirrors, talking pictures, twin tricksters by the names Gred and Forge, valentine singing dwarves, power and prejudice, lions and slimy snakes, gits that go by the name Malfoy, and a mischievous ghost named Peeves? Or perhaps I should tell you about the bludgers and brooms, the seekers and snitch, in the popular wizarding sport called Quidditch?"

Ranma shakes her head vigorously. "Do the other ones first," she demands. "Then do those."

-oOo-

Hours later, Ranma is more excited than ever about Hogwarts and is sincerely hoping that an evil dark lord decides to visit this year, too, so that this time _she_ can be involved in stopping it... never mind that dark lords generally don't come to provide entertainment for children. To Ranma, who has been missing the excitement of true battle for longer than she can remember, the mere possibility of brutal violence with mountain trolls and evil lords of darkness is both exciting and intriguing. Good stories only ever manage to approximate it vicariously... a poor substitute for the real thing.

"I do hope Awelon finds his way home..." Hermione frets.

"Awelon's a mail owl," Ranma scoffs. "He's guaranteed for anywhere in Europe. Somehow, I don't think a London address will be that hard to find."

"But he's never been there before, and the weather's dreadful! What if he catches a cold?"

Ranma rolls her eyes and tugs a list out of her pocket. "Books, wand, clothing... that's it; we have everything else," she says tersely.

"I'll get your books!" Hermione volunteers.

"You just want to spend the rest of the day in the bookstore," Ranma accuses.

"So what if I do? _You_ just don't appreciate good literature."

"_Literature_ is what Audrey reads. You read _reference manuals_."

"Hmph! At least you should appreciate me spending _my _share of the money to buy _your _books."

"Hey!" Ranma protests. "It wasn't fair that you split the money fifty-fifty in the first place. I have to buy twice as much as you!"

"Well _I _have to buy books for five new subjects, and books are expensive. Besides, you'd better get moving; it can take _hours_ to prepare the robes if you want anything special, and I _really_ recommend the _Cast to Last_ package. It's _worth_ it. ... We're here! Madam Malkin's is just next door," Hermione declares, rushing into Flourish and Blott's.

Ranma stands in the drizzle for the moment, any attempt to have the last word foiled by Hermione's hasty retreat. A movement in the bookstore window catches Ranma's attention. She peers inside and gets quite a surprise. Within an iron cage behind the window, dozens of books are locked in a vicious battle royale, snapping and tearing at each other, pages flying everywhere.

Two books grapple a third and start tearing pages out of it, but a man appears behind the cage, pokes a knobby stick between the bars, and strikes them soundly. They settle for the moment. The man hesitantly reaches in with a thickly gloved hand. Several books snap at him aggressively, but he manages to shake them off and grab one of those he subdued. He rapidly binds it and hands it to a reluctant Hermione.

"Get one for me, too!" Ranma shouts, waving at Hermione through the window. She turns and trots to Madam Malkin's.

Ding! The door to Madam Malkin's chimes as Ranma pushes in.

"Be with you in a minute!" a woman's voice shouts from the back room.

Ranma takes a minute to look around.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of storm. The wind chimes jingle lightly. The bleak, gray ambiance casts a pallor over everything, incompletely held at bay by the oil lamps hanging in the small shop.

Racks of robes clutter the area, coming in a wide variety of colors and styles.

One robe features two red, oriental-style dragons, stitched into the expensive black fabric; the dragons are moving around, occasionally lashing out and biting one another, or exhaling a column of similarly stitched-in flame. Another robe displays the night sky in vivid magi-color – stars twinkle in the deep; the nebulous Milky Way spreads over the chest; a puffy cloud wanders around a leg, and a crescent moon is visible on the right arm. Both of those robes have prohibitive price tags, at one-hundred-nine and two-hundred-sixty Galleons, respectively.

Ranma gazes for a few moments longer at the dragons, vaguely wishing she could afford such extravagance. However, she allows the fancy to dissolve and moves to look for the plain black robes needed for the Hogwarts uniform.

Most of the robes are considerably cheaper, ranging from twenty-five Sickles to ten Galleons, depending on style and design. There are plain robes, robes for day to day use, and robes for formal wear – robes for _all_ occasions. Dress-robes vary widely in style, from flowing garments to gaudy costumes. Even the plain robes come with a wide variety of colors and cuts, of which Ranma quickly picks her favorite – a design with deep, pocket-like sleeves and a folded collar. There are also quidditch robes and dueling robes, which Ranma imagines constitutes the whole of an active wizard's athletic experience.

Ranma frowns as she examines the dueling robes, touching the material tentatively. Although the robes are cut to provide mobility, they aren't suitable for martial combat. That is, one can run in them but cannot kick above the waist... at least not while leaving the robe intact.

Across the room, three girls are posing in front of mirrors and talking softly. One of them, a girl with twin brown pig-tails, briefly looks back to meet Ranma's eyes. The girls whisper to each other then glance at Ranma and giggle.

Ranma does her best to ignore them, finding a sign on a wall to occupy her attention.

The sign details various charms for the robes and their prices. They range from useful to extravagant: auto-repairing, auto-cleaning, auto-ironing, and auto-sizing form the _Cast to Last_ package, promising robes that will always fit and be fit to wear; wizard pockets are available, with prices per pocket and capacity; other modifications include temperature-adjusting, fattening, slimming, beautifying, spangled, and color changing. The sign adds that special requests may be possible too. At the bottom, fine-print details that some charms will conflict or are difficult to work together, which may result in increased price. It also indicates these prices are for plain robes; due to a risks of a charm gone awry, prices are _much_ higher for extravagant robes.

Ranma stops reading and turns when she senses someone approaching.

"How may I help you, dear? Hogwarts? Or are you looking for something in particular?" asks a kindly, squat woman that must be Madam Malkin. She vaguely reminds Ranma of Mrs. Pearson from before the teacher started scowling at Ranma as a matter of habit.

"Yeah, I need robes for school," Ranma answers. "But do you have anything that won't restrict my range of motion and that won't flash my knickers if I kick or jump?"

The girls across the room snicker.

"You may wear whatever clothing you're comfortable with under the robes," Madam Malkin explains. "Many people choose to wear more than their drawers. Are you a gymnast or something?"

Ranma nods. "Or something," she says. She kicks straight up and holds her foot above her. "I need robes that handle kicks and jumps without slowing me or showing me."

Madam Malkin stares at Ranma for a moment. "Well... I suppose I can come up with something," she says. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, I want the full _Cast-to-Last_ package on all three robes, too." Ranma stops to considers saving for the other shops."Actually, if it works as advertised, I'll only need one robe, really. Make it just one robe," she decides.

Madam Malkin looks at her oddly. "Just one? Are you sure?"

The three girls whisper amongst themselves, looking in her direction.

"They're all plain black anyway," Ranma says dismissively. "Oh, but if I only have one robe, and it gets really wet, that might be a problem. Can you make it waterproof?"

Madam Malkin shakes her head. "Waterproof charms block most auto-cleaning charms, except those based on vanishing the grime – but those diminish the lifetime of the garment, making it just fade away over a few years, which really defeats the purpose of the auto-size and auto-repair charms. I could do auto-drying, but that reduces the effectiveness of auto-cleaning; you'd need to soak the robe to clean it off. Would that be good?"

Ranma considers it and nods. "That sounds good. So, what does temperature-adjusting do, exactly? Can I add it?"

Madam Malkin smiles warmly. "Just what you'd expect," she says. "If you feel too warm, the robes get cooler. If you feel too cold, the robes get warmer. It's popular for camping and standard for auror-robes, but don't expect it to be a miracle cure to weather woes; it doesn't protect your hands or ears, and a chill wind will still cut through as though your robes weren't there. And it isn't cheap; it requires installing a special liner. Further, enchanting that liner doubles the work for all those auto-charms; there's twice the material to resize, clean, et cetra, and I must be very careful not to disrupt the magic already in the liner... On the other hand, it feels like silk against the skin. I've often recommended it just for that."

Madam Malkin presents a fold of her own robe to Ranma, letting the redhead see the slick black liner stitched professionally within

Ranma reaches out and feels it, letting her hands slide across it. She gazes at the sign and performs some rough estimates in her head. Adding temperature-adjusting triples the cost of the robes, supposing _'double the work'_ means _'twice the price'_. She won't be saving anything compared to buying three basic robes with the _Cast-to-Last_ package. But... it feels _really_ nice, like silk but slicker, like fur but cozier. Ranma grins at the thought of the material sliding smoothly across her skin, caressing her as she moves through a kata, drying any sweat, and keeping her cool as a warm winter breeze.

"Alright, I want that, too," Ranma says, deciding to indulge.

"Is that all? Anything else?"

Ranma considers the list of charms. "What about beautifying?" she asks finally.

Madam Malkin laughs. "It provides some... how shall I say it? Artificial shapeliness? I don't think you'll be interested in that... not for a few years, at least. Besides, it causes weirdness with the auto-size charms, so I don't recommend combining the two."

Ranma smiles wryly. "That's it, then – _Cast-to-Last_, auto-drying, and temperature-adjusting, with that wonderful liner." She pulls out her list and glances at it once more. "I guess I'll want one winter cloak and that pointy hat, too."

Madam Malkin smiles at the redhead and pulls out a measuring tape. "Okay, dear. Let's get you and your range of motion measured. Can you stand with your arms out?"

Ranma grins and subjects herself to Malkin's measurements and requests.

"That's it, dear. I'll get my needles working on the liner right away. I'll need to look up a few things... perhaps a few stretching and modesty-preservation charms. Come back in a few hours; supposing business doesn't pick up, I'll either have your robes or a good estimate of time and cost. My preliminary estimate is forty-two Galleons, plus ten for the Hogwarts cloak and hat."

"Thanks. Half later, right? See you in a few, then," Ranma says, producing coins from her pocket fistful by small, dainty fistful. After providing twenty-six Galleons, she steps to go.

"Strange girl," Madam Malkin mutters as she walks to the back room.

Ranma is stopped at the shop exit by the three girls. They block the path, silhouetted by the soft gray light that filters through the clouds. The oil-lamps glow upon their faces.

"Hello," says the pig-tailed girl, flashing a pretty smile. "Is it true you're buying only one robe?"

Ranma eyes her warily, but nods.

The girl titters behind her hand.

Another girl eyes Ranma's apparel with obvious distaste. "You should trade out your whole wardrobe. I wouldn't be caught dead in those... _Muggle_ clothes."

Ranma's eyes narrow and she scrutinizes the girls.

The girl who earned Ranma's ire stands between her companions, with jade-green eyes, wavy black hair and a contemptuous sneer. She wears beautiful, flowing robes of palest green – almost white. A red rose is stitched prominently over her belly, and a wide, frog-skin belt accentuates her rather shapely figure. The girl with the twin brown pig-tails stands to the left, wearing a simple yellow dress. She shifts uncomfortably in response to the other girl's statement. Rightmost, the last girl stands proudly in trim, silver-gray robes and matching boots. She has pale, piercing eyes matching gloomy, gray skies, and a classically beautiful face. She examines Ranma, her expression neutral. In the severe lighting, only the auburn tresses flowing over her shoulders give her any color.

A gust buffets, sprays; light drizzle kisses the face. Chimes chinkle and clang.

"Muggle clothes are really popular in certain crowds," the pig-tailed girl protests.

"Only amongst mudbloods and blood traitors," The green-eyed child returns snidely. "You don't want to be labeled a _blood traitor_, do you?"

The pig-tailed girl looks away, chastened.

"Do you want something?" Ranma finally asks, irritated. "Or are you only blocking the path to be rude?"

"Oooh! So the mudblood has some bite, does she?" says the obnoxious girl. "Well I'll be gracious and answer your question. We want you gone. We don't want _your kind_ at Hogwarts."

"The redhead does have a point," the girl in gray adds, speaking for the first time. Her silvery voice is calm, clinical, carrying no hint of contempt. "Why are we wasting our time with Muggle refuse? It is below our station to sully our hands with such things as removing the trash."

A stormy caress stirs every tress of her long auburn locks.

Ranma clenches her hands into fists. "Move," she demands.

"Listen to that – the mudblood thinks she can order us around. _'Move'_ she says," the green-eyed girl mocks.

"Or what? You'll strike us? How very... Muggle," the girl in gray adds calmly, glancing at Ranma's fists.

"You should know your betters, _mudblood_. If you lay so much as a finger on us, we'll make sure you _never_ get to Hogwarts."

Ranma forcefully relaxes her hands. She approaches the girls and gently, but very firmly, shoves them aside. Glancing back as she exits the shop, Ranma says derisively, "You? My betters? Because your _parents_ have... money? Status? So-called _pure blood_?" Ranma snorts. "Maybe they earned their position, but more likely they got it the same way you did: undeservingly, a legacy of someone who counterfeited coins centuries ago in your long, incestuous, ancestral history. Doesn't that make you proud, _pure blood_?"

She jabs her hands in her pockets then walks away, ignoring their glowering eyes and parting gibes.

-oOo-

By the time Ranma halts upon reaching her second destination, her annoyance and anger have already faded.

Peeling gold letters over the doorway proclaim the building's long family tradition – _Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ The building is squeezed in at one end of the alley, looking almost as old as the family running it with rusty hinges, a sagging roof, and a single wand displayed in a cushion behind a dusty window.

Ranma steps inside. A bell tinkles. All of Ranma's senses scream

Hairs rise on the back of her neck. A chill sweeps down her spine. She shudders. She feels as though evil men, or maybe cats, are hidden in the shadows and are going to attack any moment now... or maybe now? ... but no attack comes.

Ranma peers around, looking into the corners, listening for any intrud-

"Good afternoon," a deep voice intones.

"Ack!" Ranma jumps back. She lands outside Ollivanders, looking around wildly, despite the feeling of imminent danger being gone.

"Well, I've never had quite that response before," a man says, appearing in the shadowy threshold of the shabby shop. He gazes at Ranma intently with eerie, silvery eyes that shine from the darkness. "I am Mr. Ollivander," he adds after a moment. "Who might you be?"

"I'm Ranma Granger," Ranma answers, looking at the old man curiously. "How did you sneak up on me?"

The man gives her a toothy grin. "Let an old man keep his secrets," he says. "So you're the young Granger girl. I was told to expect you... and to expect damages. But I also expected a human, and a sister to Hermione Granger. You are wholly neither. It is unusual for the Ministry to allow a non-human to carry a wand... although not so unusual for partial humans."

"I am human!" Ranma protests. "And Hermione _is_ my sister."

"Oh?" He gives her the once-over with his glowing orbs. "Well, your magic is unlike anything I've seen in a human, and you certainly don't look like a sister to Hermione. But that is no matter. Come inside! I'm certain there is a suitable wand for you in here somewhere."

Ranma cautiously follows, but once again feels the intense sense of imminent attack. She stops at the door. "I-"

"I'm sorry – I didn't realize that you're unusually sensitive to the wands, or I would have prepared ahead of time," Mr. Ollivander interjects. He waves his wand and the boxes begin to shift and move so that they all point parallel to the wall.

Ranma feels the sense of danger ease, at least partially. She steps inside, still wary.

"There are others with such sensitivity, of course – those able to detect when a wand is pointed their direction," he explains. "But most children don't panic at the sensation. Have you had bad experiences with magic in the past?"

Ranma shakes her head, not wishing to discuss her history with this stranger. "None I remember," she says.

"Interesting qualification, Miss Granger," he says, shuffling through a few stacks of wands piled on his desk. He pulls out a tape measure. "Well then, let's get you measured. Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm ambidextrous," says Ranma.

"Oh? By birth or by training?" Mr. Ollivander asks, curious.

Ranma considers the question. "I don't know... a little bit of both, maybe. I favor my right hand when I'm not thinking about it, but my handwriting is better with my left hand. I practice with each hand. I'd prefer a wand that can be used with either hand, or maybe two wands so I have one for each hand."

Mr. Ollivander gazes at Ranma with his silvery moon eyes. "Ministry regulations allow you only one wand, Miss Granger," he says after a moment. "You must possess the pieces of your old wand or official ministry approval to replace a lost or broken wand... unless, of course, you're expelled, in which case I may not replace even a broken wand until you are registered with a qualified tutor. It's dreadful for business, really. But you can still practice with each hand. As you gain control, you'll be able to use your wand with either hand or even use another wizard's wand. For now, just pick an arm and let's get it measured."

Ranma sticks out her right arm, and Mr. Ollivander begins taking measurements with a largely autonomous tape measure. Then the man begins shuffling through various stacks of wands.

"So what is my magic exactly," Ranma asks as Ollivander picks out several wand boxes and sets them aside.

"Eh?"

"You said my magic isn't human. So what is it?"

"I'm not sure. I've never felt anything exactly like it before. I once sensed a vampiric wizard with a vaguely similar aspect; that probably means your magic has a strong association with darkness." He halts, then looks back and reassures her, "- as in physical darkness, not as in _dark magic. _Still, you should be able to use most spells... although you might find you possess some talents and limits that most wizards do not. Well, let's get started," he says, magically lifting a pile of over fifty wands and walking to the back of the shop. "Come on! I heard from my old friend, Mr. Fulke. He said to expect damages. You don't think I'm going to let you test wands in the main shop, do you?"

Ranma follows. "What is 'dark magic'? Is that what dark wizards use?"

Mr. Ollivander answers as he leads her back through his shop, around dusty benches and polished tools. "Dark magic is strongly associated with evil, such as magic uniquely useful for murder, torture, and... worse. It isn't a formal thing, although there is a list ofcensured spells at the Ministry. Dark wizards dabble in dark magic; not all of them are evil." He turns around and stares at her intently, his silver eyes piercing the gloom. "But not all of them are good, Miss Granger. It is best that you be careful; it doesn't do for you to be too curious about such things at your age... or at any age, really."

He leads her through the rear exit to his shop. Ranma gazes around, and sees several wooden dummies in a small lot, surrounded by a tall wooden fence.

"Let us not dwell on darkness, Miss Granger. Here, try this wand, beech wood and unicorn hair, ten and one third inches, quite stiff. Just give it a wave... at the dummy. And don't say anything."

"So I should say nothing?" Ranma asks with a smirk, accepting the wand.

"No; don't say that either," Mr. Ollivander answers with a light chuckle. "I'd rather not have my dummy disappearing on me. Just give it a wave."

Ranma closes her mouth and gives the wand a wave. A tiny red spark flies out, striking the dummy in its arm. It's entire left half becomes translucent for a moment, before restoring to normal.

"Interesting, very interesting," Mr. Ollivander says, pulling the wand from her hand. He examines it closely before placing it aside. "It seems you have an unusual talent for phasing magic, Miss Granger." He shuffles through a few boxes and places another wand in her hand. "Yew and phoenix tail feather, eleven and one eighth inches, flexible. Go on."

Ranma begins to give it a wave, but he snatches it out of her hand.

"No; that won't do at all. Let's see here," he mutters, once again shuffling through the boxes. "Mahogany and dragon heart string, nine and two thirds inches, stiff."

Ranma gives it a wave and the dummy fades away entirely.

Mr. Ollivander again takes the wand and looks at it curiously, not saying anything, then sets it aside.

The dummy pops back into existence.

"Here, black thorn and phoenix tail feather," he says, handing it to the girl. "Just give it a wave."

Ranma waves it, and the wand disappears. She looks at her hand for a moment, but the wand is just... gone.

Mr. Ollivander nods, as though expecting that result. "Aha!" He quickly shoves aside over half the wands in the pile. He shoves another wand in her hand, not even specifying its characteristics.

"I don't have to pay for that one, do I?" Ranma asks.

"No, no... of course not. Come on! Just give it a wave," he replies enthusiastically.

After thirty minutes, six more wands have disappeared, three fell into ash, two started twisting away and crawled off on their own, two are now translucent and mist-like, sitting on the counter with the other discards, and one is just a shadowy afterimage, still sitting exactly where Ranma finished waving it. The dummy itself has recovered from disappearance, one-way holes, translucence, blasting, vaporizing, rotting away, collapsing into a pile of ash... without burning, and once being turned into a shadowy afterimage like the other wand.

Mr. Ollivander is more excited than ever.

"What's up with that dummy, anyway?" Ranma asks. "It looks like it can recover from anything."

"The dummy doesn't recover. It's an auror target dummy; it just gets conjured again after being destroyed. Any old mass vanishes because the spell stops maintaining it," Mr. Ollivander explains. "Ash, ten inches, springy," he says, sticking another wand in her hand.

"You think this one's gonna work?" Ranma asks, raising an eyebrow at the old man; he hadn't specified the make of the previous thirty wands.

"Just give it a wave," he says.

"Your loss," Ranma says with a shrug. She waves it and... nothing... nothing at all. No sparks fly from the wand. The dummy doesn't suffer another major calamity. Just... nothing. She waves it again for good measure. Ranma looks at the wand, doubtfully.

Mr. Ollivander claps lightly. "There we go!"

"Are you sure? It didn't do anything."

"Exactly! It's a safe wand for you to carry."

"I think it's broken," says Ranma.

"I'd never sell a faulty wand; this wand is perfect for you... well, it might be a bit difficult to work with at first, but it should get easier as you use it. Come on; let's go ring you up."

Ranma leaves Ollivander's a few minutes later, and seven Galleons shorter.

-oOo-

"We sell _magical_ instruments not _musical_ instruments," a teenage boy behind the counter says, exasperated.

"But I want a magical violin! That's a magical instrument," Ranma declares.

"Look around. Do you see _any_ musical instruments in here? We sell dark magic detectors, Omnioculars, sneak-o-scopes, lunascopes, weatherballs, and more... but _not _violins."

Ranma puffs a tired sigh. "Well then, where would I buy a magical violin?"

"I don't know. I just work here."

"Fine!" Ranma shouts. She slams a handful of Galleons on the counter, grabs her bag, and leaves the shop, almost in one motion.

She looks around, wondering where to go next.

Ranma had spent the last hour meandering about the alley, wandering into various shops, searching for gifts. A quick stop by Gringotts had replenished her supply of Galleons at significant detriment to her own savings. She had purchased gifts for Kathryn and Audrey and was now looking for a little something for her sister and, of course, herself.

Ranma gazes across the street to Flourish and Blott's, where her sister is probably curled up with the driest book in the shop. She lets her eyes wander to another shop to which she hasn't yet been: Quality Quidditch Supplies. A lanky boy with untidy, black hair plastered to his head by the regular drizzle, stands outside the window, focused on something within.

Ranma approaches and finds the targets of his vision is a well-crafted broom labeled: _Firebolt_. She glances at the boy, who is still staring at it, unblinking. "Be careful, or it will steal your soul," she intones in a hushed whisper.

The boy jumps, startled. "What?" he says, turning to face her.

"Alas! It is already too late," Ranma laments.

"What _are_ you talking about?" the boy demands, his face all scrunched up in confusion.

"Ah!" Ranma exclaims, examining the boy's face and, especially, his forehead, where he possesses a distinct lightning-shaped scar.

The boy backs up a step, watching her warily.

"You're one of my sister's boyfriends," Ranma concludes.

"Huh?" the boy utters, looking a little dazed.

"Harry, right?" Ranma asks. She grins and sticks out a hand. "I'm Ranma Granger. It's nice to meet you in person; I've heard so much about you."

He stares at her for a moment longer before snapping out of it. He gives her hand a quick shake. "You're Hermione's sister?"

"What? Do you know any other Grangers?"

"No; it's just I didn't expect someone so-"

"- beautiful? Intelligent? Exuberant? Charming?" Ranma suggests. She flutters her eyes prettily.

"Well, I was going to say... red-haired, blue-eyed, Asian..."

"You mean that in the most complimentary way possible, of course," Ranma says dangerously.

"Err... of course," says Harry, backing up a step. "I just meant you don't _look_ like Hermione at all."

"I _am_ adopted," Ranma says. "Didn't she say _anything_ about me?"

Harry pauses for a moment. "Yeah. I distinctly recall her saying you're- err..." he suddenly cuts himself off, then continues with, "She might have said something between talking about _Hogwarts, A History_ and _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot."

Ranma reaches up and pats the taller boy on the shoulder. "In that case, I forgive you."

"Are you here with Hermione?" Harry suddenly asks eagerly. His eyes drift over to Flourish and Blott's.

Ranma nods. "Yeah, she's there... probably curled up with some sort of long, boring treatise on frooglebies," she invents.

"What the heck is a froogleby?"

Ranma shrugs. "I haven't a clue, but if they exist and there is a long and exceptionally boring treatise on them, then _'neesan_ is probably reading it. ... Say, do you know your way around the alley?"

Harry nods.

She grabs his arm and drags him away from the Quality Quidditch Supplies window. "Well then, you're going to help me find a few things, starting with a birthday gift for Hermione," Ranma says.

Harry resists the pull for a moment... or at least makes a valiant attempt. He quickly finds himself stumbling after the surprisingly strong girl. "I want to go see Hermione," he complains irritably. "Besides, the best place to get her gift is Flourish and Blott's."

"Let _'neesan_ buy her own books," Ranma says, still dragging Harry with her. "She knows what she wants better than we do. We're going to get her something _better_."

Harry manages to catch his footing and keep up with the smaller girl. "What would Hermione _possibly_ find better than a book?" he asks. "And where are we going, exactly?"

Ranma halts, causing Harry to stumble again. "Good point," she says. She gazes at Harry, watching him get up. "I'm looking for something like a... wizard pocket for books? A portable library? Do you know where to find that sort of thing?"

After Harry is once again on his feet, he absently wipes a muddy hand on his clothing and attempts, ineffectually, to tug his other arm from her grasp. Giving up, he says, "I guess I can see how that would be more useful to Hermione than just a book, but it sounds expensive." He concentrates for a few seconds then adds, "The only place I can think of is Superior Sorcerer's Storage, which we just passed on the left."

Ranma blinks, and looks to the left. "I don't see a Superior Sorcerer's Storage shop," she says after a moment.

"That's because the entrance is very, very small," says Harry.

He points at a tiny, mouse-sized double door embedded in the corner of a building selling candles, cards, and crystal balls. It is almost completely hidden from view by a Muggle-style _Daily Prophet_ dispenser and a stray bit of trash.

Ranma gazes at it for a long moment. "I imagine that is just _fantastic_ for business," she says sarcastically.

Harry shrugs. "I only found it by accident," he says. "Just approach it... and will you let go of me, please?"

Ranma releases him, and he rubs his arm where she was gripping it.

"Is it true you faced an evil dark-lord three times, and a basilisk once, and won every time?" Ranma asks as she approaches the tiny door.

"No," he answers, frowning. "I just _survived_... and I'd-" Harry's voice suddenly becomes a sonorous roar.

Ranma wobbles unsteadily, almost falling. The cobblestone road has literally grown into a pitted valley. Each cobblestone is an irregular, stony hill, slippery and wet. Between the cobblestones, once mere rainwater trickles are now raging river torrents. A shadow looms above – an enormous, tattered, ratty shoe. It swiftly approaches, the mighty stomp of Gojira, ready to squash her like a mouse. Not pausing to think about _what_ happened or _how_, Ranma leaps away, putting plenty of distance between herself and that shoe.

The effort turns out to be unnecessary. By the time the shoe lands, it and the boy wearing it are her size. Harry slips and stumbles, almost falling into a crevice between two cobblestones. After he regains his footing, he searches for Ranma, first looking the wrong direction, then into the rainwater ravine. In a moment of panic, he lifts his foot and examines the bottom of his shoe.

"Over here!" Ranma shouts, laughing and waving from several cobblestone hills away.

"How did you get all the way over there?" Harry asks.

"I hopped," Ranma answers lightly. She surveys, with some amusement, the torrential waters that should be tiny trickles and huge cobblestone hills that should fit comfortably underfoot. She was now _small_... either that, or everything else was much bigger, but she is inclined to believe the former. "Just imagine this place when the snows start," she says, grinning. "Three inches would cover us completely."

Harry looks around, but doesn't respond.

Ranma walks back to the boy, hopping casually over the crevices between the hills... although not performing any leaps Harry couldn't repeat. "Let's get inside," she says.

The children traverse the distance to the double-doors, then push them wide open

Ranma's main impressions upon entering are: large, loud, smelly, square. The place is huge, easily large enough to fit both Madam Malkin's and Ollivander's together plus a lot more ceiling room. The space is shaped oddly – just a cube of open space, with...- Ranma blinks... it's a cabinet; she gazes at some very large hinges in one corner of the room. As to loud and smelly, the whole area is inundated with the intense incense and Muggle music badly sung by a bored female somewhere outside the cabinet. "_... Call him Mr. Raider. Call him Mr. Wrong. Call him Mr. Vain (mr. vain)... Call him Mr. Raider. Call him Mr. Wrong. Call him insane (insane)... I know what I want, and I want it now. I want you, 'cuz I'm Mr. Vain..."_

The standard _'ding' _of the door opening is washed away by this raucous noise... or at least Ranma considers it such.

Harry chuckles lightly. "I reckon that's Lavender."

Ranma just grimaces a little and tries to ignore the sound as she looks around.

She sees trunks and tents, chests and portable cabins with chimneys, bags and cans and pots and pans, desks and drawers and shelves and more. Much like at Madam Malkin's, a sign says that custom orders are available, with such abilities as expanding to accommodate the user's need, shrinkable, temperature and humidity regulation, various security features, and stay-clean environment. Most of the prices Ranma sees make her eyes goggle.

Harry is already lost in his own world, looking at a trunk labeled _The Fugitive: _

_The Fugitive is designed for a man on the run. It is shrinkable for easy transport. It contains a bedroom, a stay-clean bath, a training room, a study, a potions closet, and a small kitchen with five years of food – guaranteed good for fifty years. The Fugitive and its occupants are untraceable by all means listed in the 1976 Auror's Handbook, as is any magic used by the occupants, excepting spells restricted by the Ministry. (Due to ministry regulations, it is not legal to enable a feature that violates this censure; see manual for details.) The Fugitive can turn invisible at command, allowing its user to hide indefinitely. Even the trunk, itself, is capable of running, hiding, and evading pursuers, leaving no scent and no tracks. And for the bored fugitive: WWN is built in, along with a fifty-year paid-for, untraceable, remotely-updating subscription to the Daily Prophet News, and a random crossword puzzle generator. Truly, a man on the run could ask for no better companion than – The Fugitive. Price: 29,999 Galleons_

Ranma walks over to Harry and promptly goggles at the price. "You can afford that?" she asks doubtfully.

Harry shakes his head, still staring at the chest. "I don't think so," he answers uncertainly.

"Then why are you looking at it, _baka_?" Ranma says, bopping Harry on the head. She grabs him by his arm and drags him away from the chest, adding, "Let's get _'neesan's_ gift; _then_ you may look for yourself."

"Will you stop doing that!" Harry yells at her, once again struggling to gain his feet.

"Okay! Since you asked so nicely," Ranma answers sweetly. She promptly halts her forward motion and releases Harry, letting him fall to the ground.

Harry just lies there and groans, glaring back up at the vicious redhead.

Ranma searches the area, but still finds no sign of the shopkeeper. "Hello!" she calls over the noise. "Is the vendor here? Is anyone? I need a vendor!"

Lavender's voice stops its singing, if you can call it that, and answers from outside the cabinet. "Uh? Did someone just call my name? ... I don't want to think I'm just hearing things... maybe that cabinet over there?"

"No! Not you! Please continue caterwauling tunelessly!" Ranma shouts at the wall.

Harry grunts and pushes himself to his feet. "Isn't that a bit harsh?" he asks.

Ranma looks at him blankly. "Uh... no."

Then the huge cabinet wall is suddenly jerked open and Lavender peers inside. Shelves filled with enormous crystals and candles can be seen behind her. She sticks her huge head in; a lock of her hair knocks a trunk from a precarious pile. "Oh! Hi, Harry!" she booms. Then she glowers at Ranma.

"Didn't you hear me? I told you to go away," Ranma says.

"Oh, I heard you, alright," Lavender rumbles dangerously. "You said I was'caterwauling tunelessly.'"

"Well, that is my opinion," Ranma answers simply.

"Uh... what is 'caterwauling', exactly?" Lavender resounds curiously.

Ranma stares up into Lavender's large eyes, and intones, "Caterwauling is the most horrible sound in the world. It is a high pitched cry in the city nights, a piercing wail, a plea for help from the very depths of hell. It is worse than the mandragora... worse, even, than the banshee's scream. It is a yowl by demons most foul... creatures with sharp claws, like tempered steel, eyes that shine through the night, and minds that know only greed, gluttony, lust, envy, and sloth." Ranma shudders, then continues melodramatically, "You might not believe in true evil, but it exists. Caterwauling is a shriek by _Evil..._ in heat. I heard it once – in the city, at night, near the docks. I barely survived with my mind intact. I prayed to never hear such a horrible sound again, but I did."

Lavender is leaning close, listening with rapt attention. Harry is also watching with some interest.

"I heard it, just now, in your tuneless bellowing," Ranma concludes.

"Why you -!" Lavender thunders. "Ouch!" she adds when her sudden movement culminates with her head soundly striking a beam in the cabinet ceiling. Lavender glares at Ranma as though that were somehow Ranma's fault, then reaches in with her huge hand and attempts to grab the rude redhead.

Ranma dodges away, laughing delightedly. "Nyaaah!" she taunts, tugging her cheek down with a finger, and sticking her tongue out. "Did you know that you have a _huge, enormous, protruding nose_?" Ranma asks, rolling under another strike. "Actually, everything about you is huge and protruding except, well, your chest," she adds, bouncing over a third.

"Get back here!" Lavender roars, sweeping through the shop like an angry titan. Pots and pans crash into the ground, clattering and clanging as the metal settles. A display tent topples, then magically gets back up. A trunk skips and thumps from one end of the shop to the other, almost hitting Harry. "Sorry, Harry!" she booms in apology. Then she promptly throws another.

Harry just gives Lavender a frightened look in response, and wisely begins looking for salvation from random devastation. He finds it, unhesitatingly leaping into _The Fugitive._ The trunk promptly turns invisible and scuttles off to... somewhere; not even Ranma knows because _The Fugitive_ is very good at its job.

"Snakes have better throwing arms than you do!" Ranma says, watching Lavender's throw go wide.

The errant trunk strikes a whole pile of dormant security chests. They promptly wake up, growing eyes, teeth, arms, and long, slavering tongues. Not finding any human targets in the immediate vicinity, they viciously begin attacking each other.

"Check it out! They're mimics!" Ranma says ecstatically, recalling several scenes from various video-games in Kathryn's collection. She watches one mimic brutally bite the tongue off another then swallow.

Lavender pays the mimics no attention as she searches for another heavy object to launch in Ranma's general direction.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here!" an outraged voice shouts, managing to gain the girls' attention. The speaker is a grizzled old man, dressed in purple pajamas and a nightcap. He lies half-sprawled on the floor, and half inside a toppled trunk. He has a cane in one hand and a wand in the other.

"It's her fault!" Lavender rumbles, pointing at Ranma.

Ranma and the pajama'd man stare at her, eyebrows raised. The hand with which she points carries what is obviously her next piece of ammunition: a portable cabin, with a chimney.

Lavender takes a peek in her own hand. She cringes. She looks back at the old man. She carefully, cautiously, slowly places the portable cabin back where she found it. Then she bolts! The cabinet door slams shut, just in time to block several hexes flying her direction.

"Slytherin's bollock's!" the pajama'd man screams.

The pitter-patter of feet in flight fades into the distance.

The grizzled man in purple pajamas then turns to face Ranma. He scowls and taps his foot impatiently.

"What?" Ranma asks. "I didn't actually _do_ anything to damage your shop," she says quite truthfully.

"What is her name, child?"

Ranma pauses to think about it. "She never actually told me, and it's the first time I ever saw her," Ranma replies.

The man scowls at Ranma... well, his already-present scowl deepens. "Then can you at least tell me _why_ was she wrecking my shop?" he demands.

Ranma grins. "So you _are_ the owner! For a while there I suspected you were just squatting in that trunk. Well then, I was calling for you, and she must have heard me calling, so she opened the cabinet door. She was -"

"Just get to bloody point already!" the man shouts, waving his cane around.

Ranma blinks, and continues her line of thinking for a moment so she can find the point herself. "Well, since you insist, the point is that she wrecked the shop because she was angry."

"And _why_ was she angry?"

"Because she perceived insult."

"And _why_ did she perceive insult?"

Ranma frowns at the man. "If you wanted all this clarification, you should have listened to the whole story in the first place."

SLAM! The old man jabs his cane into the ground. "Just answer my questions so I can figure out how this is all _your_ fault!" he yells.

Ranma's eyes narrow and glint dangerously. She slowly approaches the pajama'd man, saying, "If you must know, she was hostile to me from the moment she saw me. She wouldn't be the first girl to react that way. Just this morning a girl took one look at my clothing, called me a _mudblood,_ and found my very presence to be insulting. Are you like her, trying to pin this on me because I'm a _mudblood_?"

The man falls backwards over the trunk behind him.

Ranma leans over, staring directly into his eyes. "Or are you like that girl, willing to risk everything to return a perceived insult?"

"Uh... No?" the man answers cautiously.

"Good! In that case we can get down to business," Ranma says, backing off and bringing her hands together gleefully. She surveys the destruction throughout the shop. She pauses for only a minute to watch two mimics bashing ineffectually at a third with their fists. Part of Ranma's mind registers that this is probably due to basic physics; structural strengths are relatively much higher at their current size. However, the rest of Ranma's mind moves on to more pressing business. "But first, I need to find Harry."

The old pajama'd shop owner also examines the devastation, tears in his eyes. "Stop that!" he screams at the mimics. He waves his wand at them a few times, and the mimics settle back into their dormant state and fly into a pile. Then the man just sits down and weeps into his hands.

"Do you know where _The Fugitive _is," Ranma asks suddenly. "It seems to have... escaped."

"What!" the man shouts, leaping to his feet. He looks around, panicking. "Fugitive! Get over here, now!" he calls.

The sound of quick scampering, iron pegs pounding the wooden floor, approaches. _The Fugitive_ becomes visible at the owner's feet.

"You hid from that monster? Good boy," the owner says, patting the trunk fondly.

Click. Creak. "Aaaah!" Harry flies out, spat from the trunk's open maw. Thump. Harry groans.

SLAM! The old man's cane strikes the ground by Harry's head. "Trying to steal _The Fugitive_, boy?" the owner demands, glaring down at Harry. He waves his wand arm at the general devastation. "You thought you could take advantage of my situation?" SLAM! "Well, I got the better of you. _The Fugitive_ can't be stolen, boy! None of my top designs can! Now, what have you got to say for yourself?" He pokes Harry with the pointy end of his cane.

"I wasn't trying to steal anything!" Harry protests. "I was just hiding!"

SLAM! "You can't fool me boy! We'll just see where the Wizengamot puts you... Azkaban! For years, maybe!"

Harry panics. "I'm telling the truth! I swear!" He looks at Ranma. "Tell him!"

"Alas, poor Harry! I know him well, shopkeeper... a boy of infinite gloom, orphaned by a great evil then forced to survive on scraps from those who don't want him. Just look at his shoes!" Ranma brings a finger to her eye, wiping away a single, perfect tear. "You can't blame him, shopkeeper. He knows not what he has done."

Harry glares at Ranma while pushing himself to his feet.

"Harry?" the old man asks. "Harry as in... Harry Potter?" He brings his cane up, pokes it into Harry's forehead, and swipes it across the boy's brow.

"Ouch!" Harry yells, clutching his forehead. "Are you trying to add another scar!"

"My apologies, lad. I did not know who you are. How can I help you? My shop isn't in the best condition right now – it's in the middle of inventory and reorganization... and a security renovation. But I'll help you if I can."

Harry just stares at him.

Ranma laughs aloud, then falls to the ground clutching her side. Her laughs grow silent after she runs out of breath, but she still lies there, convulsing in a rather undignified manner.

The pajama'd shopkeeper glowers down at the quivering redhead, then points his cane first at her, then the door. "You! Out!" he shouts.

Ranma points at Harry, and manages to wheeze aloud, "I'm with him," before releasing another peal of laughter.

"Is this true?" the man asks Harry.

"Yes," Harry answers somewhat reluctantly.

Ranma manages to calm down and regain her feet. "We need something like a portable library or a good book bag in the range of forty Galleons or less. I figure I'll pay for half, and Harry for the other."

The old man glowers at her. "Forty Galleons? Don't insult me! Who are you buying this cheap crap for? I sell _lifetime_ investments. I sell _superior_ sorcerer's storage, not rotting wooden buckets! The Potter fortune can afford _The Fugitive_ on yearly interest alone! Oh, by the way, did you like _The Fugitive_, lad?"

"Uh," Harry says, looking a little dazed.

"Well, if that isn't good enough for you, there is _The Exile_," the pajama'd man says enthusiastically. "_The Exile_ starts with _The Fugitive_, but adds a three-room suite. The first is a Muggle-technology shielding room with a Super Famicom – recently added – and Muggle television – in color, and a VCR because, let's face it, Muggle entertainment is better. The second room is an observatory allowing you to see everything in a five mile radius... and I mean _everything. _ Finally, the third is an entertainment room, allowing any illusions you can come up with, plus three-hundred built in simulations from various Muggle source materials with complete visual and tactile sensations... if you know what I mean.

"Untraceable remote post is available in the study so you can read and write to others. The kitchen can automatically cook any recipe in its library, with three-thousand known recipes pre-installed. Every room is stay-clean.

"Most useful of all, it has a time-transformer, which allows you to compress time so you have up to ten times the time to train, sleep, or do work or, if you wish, dilate it, so the years fly by up to ten times faster and such legal conveniences as the _Statute of Limitations_ can take effect. Further, the whole trunk can apparate, at your command from the observatory.

"With _The Exile_, who _needs_ anything else. It is my greatest work of art! Pure genius! I live in a modified one myself! But I've only sold three, all of them to _enlightened _Muggles, but don't tell anyone. For you, lad, I'll give a special, low, one-time offer of seven-hundred-eighty five-thousand Galleons! And I'll even throw in free update service for the upcoming thirty-two bit systems!

"How does that sound, boy?" he asks, looking a little odd in his purple pajamas and nightcap. "I could start work on it tonight."

Harry briefly goes cross-eyed and wobbles a little.

"That sounds pretty sweet!" Ranma says. She turns huge, cute, puppy-dog eyes on Harry, and begs, "Harry, will you get me one of those? Pleeease?"

Harry gives her a long, incredulous look. "No," he intones.

"Well, then," Ranma says, turning to face the old man. "We need to talk about book bags and portable libraries."

"Certainly! Come this way," he says, leading them on in his purple pajamas. "I have just the thing! It can-"

"How much does it cost," Ranma interjects wryly.

"Oh, just fifty-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-ninety-nine Galleons. But it's worth every Knut, I assure you! It's called _The Analyst._ Why, it can store the entire Hogwarts library _and _the United States Library of Congress by rendering them into pure informational state... reversible, of course. Not only that; it will automatically catalog and index every passage of the books so you can find anything you're looking for by book, author, subject, or concept. It's a researcher's best friend! ..."

Ranma and Harry sigh. It's going to be a _looong_ day.

-oOo-

"Well, at least we got it into the three-digit range," Ranma says positively.

Harry slumps, looking subdued. "Don't ever tell Hermione how much I spent on her."

"As you wish!" Ranma exclaims cheerfully. "Tell me again: when is her birthday?"

"Sunday, September nineteenth," Harry drones.

"And don't you forget it! And what are you going to do?"

"I still think she'll find it embarrassing," he says. Then he mumbles, "not to mention me."

Ranma stares at him darkly. "And _what_ are you going to do?"

Harry sighs. "I'm going to tell her Happy Birthday, during breakfast. Then I'll... kiss her on the cheek... and give her _The Compendium_. Finally, I will show her how to use the gift's features."

"And if she hugs you?"

"Then I will hug her back, and kiss her on the cheek... again," he says mechanically.

"_And?"_

Harry turns a dead gaze towards Ranma and tiredly answers, "And I will be happy."

"Okay!" she says, skipping ahead for a moment. "But you aren't showing nearly enough enthusiasm! I'll drill that into you later."

Harry groans and rubs his temples.

"So what are you going to do when you see her today?" Ranma asks.

"I'm going to thank her for the Broomstick Servicing Kit," Harry says, a little more enthusiastic. "How can you still be so energetic?" he asks, looking at her spry form enviously.

Ranma grins widely. "Because I only spent _twenty_ Galleons," she answers.

Harry's shoulders slump even further.

"It was _you_ who decided to buy that chest."

"Believe me; it doesn't feel that way from where I'm standing." Harry puffs a beaten sigh. "It's just that a _mere two-thousand-nine-hundred-ninety-nine_ Galleons seemed really cheap at the time."

"Well, it _is_ a good chest," Ranma says. "What _I _don't get is why he has all those really expensive trunks and stores them all in a smelly cabinet."

Harry pulls a miniaturized chest from his pocket and examines it, frowning. "Maybe he likes the incense," he says. "I'm just hoping what he said about the Potter family fortune is true."

Ranma laughs. "At least you didn't buy _The Exile,_" she says.

Harry groans. "Don't talk about it! I'm still tempted. If he said one thing about the Dursleys...-" He shudders. "This is killing me! Do you mind if I stop by Gringott's before we see Hermione?"

"Not at all! I need to stop by Madam Malkin's anyway!"

Far behind them, a tiny black dog standing at a mouse-sized door stares forlornly at a sign that reads, _Closed for Repairs and Renovation._

-oOo-

Flip.

A few minutes pass.

Flip.

... and a few more.

Flip.

Hermione once again turns the page of _Great Greed II: Silver and Steel_, and loses herself in the words and the stories told by them.

Flip.

Ranma is _wrong_. The _Great Greed _series proves a text can be both great literature _and_ great reference material.

Flip.

Flip.

Hermione hears something about someone's knee. She ignores it.

Flip.

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione jolts in surprise. "Hi, Harry!" She blinks. "You didn't have to yell, you know. You should be quiet in a bookstore."

Harry stares at her, exasperated. "Yeah, I did."

She sets the book aside and stands up. "It's good to see you again, Harry!" she says, wrapping him in a hug.

Harry stiffens a little and surreptitiously glances back at the Flourish and Blott's entrance. Then he hugs her lightly and pulls away.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Hermione asks.

"Your sister told me you were here," Harry answers. "What are _you_ doing here? Your letter said you'd be here the last week before school."

"So you've met my sister, have you? She found out she is a witch yesterday and insisted we come. She can be _very_ insistent."

"I've noticed," Harry states, rubbing his wrist.

Hermione's eyes narrow. "What did she do now? She didn't make you spend all your money, did she?"

Harry freezes.

"She did, didn't she! I'm going to have to have a talk with her."

"Really? Really, we're going to have to have a talk – a talk about your redundant repetitions, my dear sister, Hermione," says Ranma, walking in.

Hermione glowers at her.

Ranma poses. "Check out the new threads!"

Ranma is dressed in new plain black robes. They don't look particularly impressive, although she does cut a cute form in them – as she does in anything.

"These robes are temperature-adjusting, _'neesan. _The liner feels like silk on the skin. I'd let you touch it, but I wouldn't want you getting... jealous. And I bet your robes can't do this!"

Ranma drops into a low, wide stance. The robes split into pants to accommodate the position. Ranma kicks straight up, rotates her hips, and drops her heel into a powerful axe-kick, stopping a hair's-breadth above a table.

She grins.

"Hmph! Only _you_ would buy robes designed for martial arts," Hermione says.

"Now _that's_ hardly true, _'neesan_. That just tells me you haven't watched _nearly_ enough martial arts movies."

"Why would I want to? It's not like they can teach me anything."

"Kathryn's getting better."

"The martial arts in those movies is completely fake!"

"I dunno... some of those coming from China and Japan are pretty good."

"They fly around on wires!"

"It's a reasonable simulation. I mean, you can't expect _actors_ to roof hop."

"Uh," Harry interjects. "People can actually do that?"

"Yes." "No." Ranma and Hermione say at once.

"You've seen _me_ do it," says Ranma.

"You're a special exception, like _Spiderman_. You were probably exposed to some freakish accident as a child – oh, wait! You _were_!"

"You'd think a girl who suddenly learned magic exists at age eleven would be more open-minded," Ranma says.

"I've _seen_ wizards. You can't seriously expect that there are thousands of insanely strong _martial artists_ duking it out all over the city, and _nobody has noticed_!"

"Who said there has to be thousands? There might only be hundreds, and they probably train most of the time. Besides, there are thousands of wizards."

"But _wizards_ are trying to keep it secret and, more importantly, they can _erase people's memories_ and use spells to _hide_ their activities from others!"

"Well, there could be underground arenas. I've seen those in lots of movies."

"You're grasping at straws," Hermione crows victoriously.

"But it _makes sense_ to fight in underground arenas. According to Jon, fighting is illegal."

"According to Officer Hurst, _sneezing_ is illegal."

"You're exaggerating."

"He writes tickets for traveling one mile-per-hour over the speed limit!" Hermione screeches. "_And_ he gives a _long _lecture."

"Only when he's _really_ bored. And he hasn't done that to us since that first time. Besides, it isn't like _you_ aren't a stickler for the rules."

Harry laughs aloud. He quickly suppresses it as the Granger girls turn their eyes towards him. "Don't mind me!" he says defensively.

Hermione suddenly looks distraught. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry! I forgot you were there!"

"Oh, no! It was quite interesting. Like watching tennis. . . played with a bludger."

Ranma snickers, then grabs her sister in a one-armed hug. "It's how we show our affection."

Hermione hugs Ranma back, wrapping both arms around her sister, then addresses Harry. "Whatever you do, _don't_ say something like that around Fred and George. They might get ideas."

Harry thinks about it for a moment, then cringes. "Right."

"Hey, when is Gareth supposed to pick us up?" Ranma asks suddenly, searching for a clock.

"Oooh... that lining _does_ feel good," Hermione says as she pulls her hands out of Ranma's robes. She looks at a dainty watch on her wrist. "Oh, no! We're already twenty minutes late! Sorry Harry! We've gotta go."

She grabs Harry in a tight hug.

Hermione doesn't see Harry's eyes widen in fright, or drift over to Ranma. Hermione doesn't see the dangerous glint in Ranma's eyes, or the devilish grin.

Hermione only feels Harry gulp, and hug her in return... then kiss her lightly on the cheek with his warm lips.

She blushes and pulls away. "SeeYouLater, Harry!" she says. She grabs her bag and Ranma, then she bolts from the store.

"Thanks for the Broomstick Servicing Kit!" Harry calls after them.

But they are already gone.


	6. Dust

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

We'd like to thank Vorpal for performing a beta read and error correction.

**Started: ** May 14, 2005

**Last Update:** August 31, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

_**Last Chapter:** Ranma finally receives an invitation to Hogwarts. She visits Diagon Alley. There, Ranma finally learns of Hermione's rather unusual extracurricular activities: saving Hogwarts from the yearly threat and removing incompetent DADA teachers. Hermione extorts Ranma to keep this story from her parents, along with the Sirius Black fiasco, using threat of cat. Ranma purchases school supplies, including a nice robe. She also purchases gifts for Kathryn and Audrey. While seeking a gift for Hermione, Ranma meets and abuses both Harry and his pocketbook._

_Harry receives his first impression of Ranma: Hermione was right. Ranma, at age eleven, really _is_ an obnoxious, arrogant little brat. And she's scary, and possibly a little insane... but she's cute. Browbeaten by Ranma, Harry gives Hermione a kiss on the cheek, and he is promptly left in the dust of her departure._

Ranma is no butterfly, but chaos theory does apply. Divergence events from Harry Potter canon: _Hermione purchases an owl, Awelon, instead of the cat, Crookshanks. Harry finally checks his accounts and learns that he is a millionaire (in Galleons). Harry kisses Hermione on the cheek (under duress). _

_Last Chapter Credits to: _Culture Beat (Mr. Vain)

**_Author Note:_** _Some answers to some common questions I've been hearing:_

**  
(**_mild_**) SPOILER WARNING!**

_Q: "**Will Ranma's memory be recovered?**" _

_A: Yes – currently by drams in dreams, but quickly via catalyst after two more years. _

_Q: "**Why did you make Ranma amnesic?**"_

_A: It's a useful, if cliché, plot device. Under most circumstances, canon-Ranma would never stay longer than it takes to get an aging potion and a magical thermos._

_Q: "**What about personality? Ranma seems a little out-of-character.**"_

_A: Ranma has an altered character, which should be distinguished from being out-of-character. Out-of-character is the result of poor writing or parody. Altered character is the natural result of change.   
_

_Ranma was quite insane during the two years in the asylum, but began recovering after receiving an amulet from Gosunkugi. The recovery was rapid, just taking several months to reach clinically sane – unfortunately almost two months _after _leaving the asylum. The prologue through chapter three display this change in stages, and you see the first emergence of Ranma's core personality. The insanity hasn't left Ranma entirely unscarred, but the effects are subtle and deep._

_Two years of tender loving care later, Ranma's core personality has recovered a great deal, including that playfulness, arrogance, attention seeking, and a well deserved confidence that arises from ability to pound almost anything into submission. However, Ranma's personality is tempered by these years of experience, by living as a child again, by having consistent friendship, and by a want of rivals in any physical arena. Ranma is shaped by friends that value camaraderie over competition, a family that favors brains above brawn, and a top class girls school that promotes individual excellence over conformity and critical thinking over blind obedience. And, in any person, behaviors are shaped by skills; Ranma has obtained skill with words: skill in English that surpasses Ranma's skill in Japanese, and the skill to fight with words in lieu of fists. You begin to see these changes as of chapter four._

_Ranma's personality and behavior will continue to develop – a few of the more obvious influences include magical training, puberty, and the eventual recovery of memory._

_Q: "**Is Ranma stuck as a female?**"_

_A: No. Why am I still getting this question? This should be obvious by now. _

_Q: "**But why is Ranma a female? I don't like Ranma-as-a-female-fics!**"_

_A: Think of Ranma as _Ranma, _not _Ranma-la-femme_. Ranma, at age nine, was unconcerned about gender. At age eleven, Ranma feels the same. Ranma's current gender is _not_ an important aspect of this fiction. Ranma doesn't play with dolls. Ranma doesn't giggle, titter, or squeal. Ranma's not much for crying at sappy movies. Ranma's main interests are fighting, food, family, and friends._

_I have many motivations for casting Ranma as a female for the first few years of this fiction. Some are symbolic; Ranma grows up twice – once as a warrior and once as a witch, once as a boy and once as a girl. Some are related to character development; being raised as a girl significantly mollifies Ranma's _male chauvinism_ and _machismo_ – traits I dislike in Ranma but am unwilling to pretend never existed. However, the most important reasons are simply _practical – _it is easier to keep the Jusenkyo magic a secret as a girl; cold water is far more common than hot water. This is important because the consequences of the magic's exhibition are profoundly negative... especially when Ranma was fresh out of the asylum, not entirely sane, lacking any skills for non-violent conflict resolution, and among children that would brand Ranma as a freak. The legal, social, and emotional fallout from _that_ powder-keg would bury the plot._

_Q: "**Will Ranma match-up with a girl? I don't like Ranma/male match-ups!**" _

_A: No match-ups or (romantic or sexual relation)ships are planned for Ranma. Period. I've said it before: I don't push ships – it's undignified. However, if it turns out there is a lot of chemistry between characters, and circumstances allow, and the romance or sex can be used to enhance the drama or push the plot, then we'll see what develops from there._

_While I cannot assert that Ranma will never be romantically interested in a male, I _can_ assure you that Ranma's sexual preference tends towards females. Due to socialization, Ranma is unlikely to be _disgusted _at the idea of a romantic relationship with a boy (as canon-Ranma would be), but Ranma is also unlikely to be sexually attracted to a boy. Thus, any Ranma/male relationship is unlikely to advance past platonic pecks and dinner dates (at the boy's expense, of course)._

_In any case, the whole match-up issue isn't an issue for a _long_ while. Although twenty-two by birth, Ranma is only eleven physically, and despite Ranma's female form following a girl's schedule for puberty, Ranma's mind and male body both follow a boy's schedule. Ranma simply isn't interested in sex or romance yet. That hormone-induced madness we all know and hate waits until ages thirteen to fifteen. Thus, any ship is going to wait at harbor for at least another story-year or three, unless it's just a friendship._

_Q: "**Will this be a Harry/Hermione match-up?**"_

_A: I don't know. I won't deny the possibility; divergence allows for non-canonical relationships. In the short term, however, the answer is definitely no. Harry isn't even interested in girls yet; he just starts noticing them during the coming year. As for later, well, Harry has a canonical history of interest in attractive, athletic Asian girls and vivacious redheads. (- grin -)_

_Hopefully you will enjoy the story enough that any particular match-up (or its breakup, or absence) won't derail you from reading._ _For now, just read, enjoy, and keep in mind that this story is _not_ a romance and that the characters in question are still children._

_Q: (Comment)"**A bobby on the beat doesn't carry in London.**_"

_A: Consider it an alterverse quirk. In London's long history, the number of cops authorized to carry firearms is strongly correlated with the number of years since the last officers were murdered. Things go bump in the night in my world, and the gun-toting criminal underworld is a problem. Cops are murdered every year. As a result, standing firearms authority exists for routine patrols in a number of problematic areas, especially at night, much like patrols in Nottingham today. Further, much more than seven percent of the London Metropolitan Police force is trained and authorized to carry when a firearms authority exists._

_Thanks for the comment, though. While I have integrated this particular factoid, I was originally ignorant of said policy. Any corrections on British culture issues are very welcome – especially small things that are easy to fix like nine-nine-nine vs. nine-one-one, and solicitors vs. barristers vs. lawyers. (I've pretty much given up on bloody British English... excepting a few characters for whom I'll vainly attempt to handle it.)_

_Q: "**Will the Nerima cast be getting involved?**"_

_A: Yes. Ryouga appears in Fall 1993, and irregularly from then on. The Tendos and Amazons visit sometime between Fall 1994 and Spring 1995. Happosai havocs Hogwarts in Fall 1995 – the era of Umbridge. Nodoka flies to London in 1996. I'm unwilling to reveal more at the moment. Not all of the Nerima cast get involved in the story in equal degrees, but many of them do get involved. Some even become regular or important players in the plot._

_Q: "**Uh... just how many more chapters before Ranma reaches Hogwarts?**"_

_A: By current plans, Ranma boards the Hogwarts Express in Chapter Seven._

_Q: "**Is this fiction dark or comedy?**"_

_A: Yes._

_Okay... enough silly questions. _

**Chapter Five: Dust**

Someday man's best laid plans

will lie twisted and covered in rust.

We've done all we can,

but it slipped through our hands.

It's ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

– Steve Earle, _Ashes to Ashes_ (1955-)

August 1993

-oOo-

"Wow. These robes really do feel nice," Audrey says softly, curled up on the couch with Ranma's robes, allowing the inner lining to slide silky smooth against her skin. As always, she has a book in her hand, but this time it is _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander.

Kathryn sits on the floor, teasing the _Monster Book of Monsters._ It tugs violently at the rag in her hand, and she playfully tugs back. "Tell me about getting attacked by that giant, Lavender, again!" she requests.

"She wasn't big; I was small," Ranma corrects.

"You shouldn't tease Lavender like that," Hermione chastises. "I have to live with her, you know... and I'm sure that, somehow, it was all _your _fault."

Ranma stares at her sister. "She did over two-thousand Galleons in irreparable damage, _'neesan_," she reminds her. "I didn't tell her to do it."

Kathryn squeals as the _Monster Book of Monsters_ releases the rag. She promptly slaps the book to the ground with a hand, casually turns it around, then tosses the ratty cloth towards Hermione, who immediately leaps into the nearest chair. The monster moves with as much speed as it can muster, scrambling inefficiently across the carpeted floor. In a final semi-stumble, semi-leap it snags the rag before it lands. The monster, gnawing voraciously, scampers back towards Kathryn, who once again begins a tiny tug-o'-war.

"Bind that evil book back up!" Hermione commands from her recliner, keeping her feet well off the floor.

Neither Kathryn nor Ranma heed her demand. Audrey merely turns the page and begins reading about yet another fantastic beast.

It has been a few hours since Ranma's visit to Diagon Alley. The nasty, gray drizzle has broken, and the setting summer sun shines low in the sky – rays rebounding from scattered clouds in a myriad of yellows, oranges, and violets, brightly illuminating an airy room littered with a cauldron, trunk, books, and potion supplies. The television flickers in the corner, reporting a reward for tips on a scraggly, armed-and-dangerous man they identify as Sirius Black. Awelon hoots distressedly from the kitchen, unused to his new confines, and unable to get help from Hermione... who is staring, wide-eyed, terrified, at her book.

"I wanted one of those, too," Ranma complains, gazing enviously at the same book.

"As what? A pet?" Hermione asks.

Ranma nods. "I'd teach it to hunt slitted-eyed, pointy-eared, evil creatures. I hear Hogwarts is infested with them."

Hermione scowls. "Then I'm _so_ sorry I didn't hear your request."

"Speaking of bad hearing, did you notice that your boyfriend thanked you for the Broomstick Servicing Kit?"

Hermione folds her arms in front of her chest. "I don't know how you got that silly idea in your head, but Harry is _not_ my boyfriend," she says with finality.

"_Really_?" Ranma drawls. "Harry didn't deny it."

Hermione glowers. "You probably didn't give him a chance. Heck, knowing you, you probably didn't even bring it up," she accuses. "That would make it very difficult for him to deny it."

"I'm hurt that you'd accuse me of such things," Ranma feigns, a hand spread across her heart. "I'll have you know that I did, as you say, bring it up. Besides, him being your boyfriend _does _explain what happened in the bookstore."

Hermione's face flushes beet-red. "It wasn't like that!"

"Yes it was. You hugged him, he hugged you, and then he _kissed_ you!" Ranma declares.

"Harry is_ not _my boyfriend!"

"L-O-V-E!"

"I am not!"

"Then why do you sign all your letters -" Ranma clasps her hands together under her chin and breathes, "- _Love, Hermione_."

"You've been reading my letters?" Hermione growls. "You little sneak!" She stumbles out of the recliner and lunges at her sister.

"Well, I had to find _something _to entertain me while we were confined to that hotel in France," Ranma laughs, dancing away.

"Go, Hermione! In the name of love and justice!" Kathryn cheers.

"Like you're one to talk, Miss I-open-any-letter-I-get-my-hands-on," Audrey scoffs.

"This is different! This is about true- OWWww!" Kathryn exclaims. The _Monster Book of Monsters_ has latched onto her hand. It gnaws, gnashes, grips and growls as Kathryn attempts unsuccessfully to shake it off. "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!"

Ranma dashes over, quickly followed by Hermione and Audrey. After prying the book from Kathryn's hand, Ranma wordlessly examines Kathryn's fingers.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asks, concerned. She pauses a moment to turn off the television.

Kathryn nods, although her pain-contorted face and tears in her eyes say otherwise. When Ranma releases her wrist, Kathryn immediately sticks her sore fingers in her mouth. She sinks into Audrey's waiting arms, allowing herself to be rocked and comforted by the smaller girl.

"No bones are broken," Ranma says clinically. "You'll get better. But there will probably be some bruising." She glances at the _Monster Book of Monsters_, which struggles vainly to escape her grip, and scowls at it. "It's a good thing for _you_ that you don't have any teeth left."

"Or what?" Hermione asks. "You'd destroy my book?"

Ranma doesn't answer, choosing instead to bind the book with a belt.

"... Or maybe you could just kill it?" Hermione adds hopefully. "I mean, as long as it's still readable..."

Ranma grins wryly and tosses the belt-bound book on the table. "Maybe I could, _'neesan_, but I find it amusing to watch you flee from a book."

Hermione glowers, then her face slowly widens into maniacal grin. "You know, there was an absolutely _gorgeous _ginger _cat_ at the Magical Menagerie..."

"You promised-"

"Oh, of course I promised not to _buy_ a cat," Hermione says knowingly. "That doesn't mean I can't _talk_ about cats, does it? ... or babysit them? ... or adopt one for free? Hmm. I wonder if anyone rents or leases cats."

Ranma glowers at her sister, who smirks in return.

After the staring contest continues several seconds, Ranma gains an enigmatic smile. "Fine. Be that way, _'neesan._ But you won't be getting any gifts from me today."

Hermione loses her smirk.

"Gifts? _Gifts? _ What did you get us?" Kathryn asks enthusiastically, momentarily forgetting her pain.

"You didn't get them anything _magical_, I hope," Hermione says dryly. "That would be a violation of the _Statute of Secrecy_ AND the _Muggle Protection Act_."

"They already know about witches, and I didn't get anything that might hurt them," answers Ranma, rummaging around in her pocket.

"That's irrelevant to the law," Hermione snaps. "Besides, there's a huge difference between knowing about witches and carrying definite proof of their existence."

"We won't show anybody!" Kathryn protests.

Audrey nods her agreement.

Ranma gazes pensively at Hermione for a moment. "You know... Hermione's right," Ranma says, turning back to her friends.

"But, but, but-" Kathryn protests.

Ranma shakes her head forlornly. "I'm afraid that you two will just have to -" Ranma, with a flourish, hands each of her friends a gift-wrapped package "- be really_, really_ sneaky."

Hermione scowls.

Shred. Rip. Tear. Kathryn tosses the crumpled wrapping to the ground and holds what appears to be a large pair of knobby brass binoculars to her eyes. She immediately starts fiddling with the dozens of buttons, sliders, and dials.

"Those are field omnioculars," Ranma starts. "They can-"

"Wow! It has tracking features! I can see things from different angles! And even around corners! Wicked! It's in slow-mo! Hey, do a punch!"

Ranma throws a quick jab. "I figured it would help you find scenes to paint," she explains.

Kathryn squeals. She puts the omnioculars down just long enough to wrap Ranma in an enormous hug. "Thank you so much!" Then she turns to Audrey. "What did you get?"

"A bookmark," Audrey says. She lifts the violet ribbon. It's two fingers' width, and is decorated with silver end-pieces – the first shaped into an open book and the second into a quill and inkwell. "It's very beautiful," Audrey adds politely.

"It's a _searching_ bookmark with _highlighting_ features," clarifies Ranma. She grabs Hermione's _Oxford English Dictionary_ from a nearby bookshelf, sticks the violet ribbon between two random pages, touches a silver end-piece, then intones, "Find a word describing an irritating stickler for the rules." When she opens the book at the marked page, she declares, "_'Neesan_, you're persnickety."

"Hmph! Well you're an impudent, insolent, audacious, outrageous, presumptuous imp," Hermione responds indignantly, crossing her arms. "And I don't need the dictionary for that."

Ranma, meanwhile, is using the bookmark and flipping rapidly through the dictionary "I'm neither insolent nor outrageous," she protests finally.

"Oh, but you admit to the rest? You're incorrigible!"

Ranma is once again opening the dictionary when-

Ding dong! The door bell rings.

"Who could that be?" Hermione asks. She glances about and grimaces. "You clean this mess, and I'll get the door." She swiftly leaves the room.

Ding dong! Ding ding ding ding ding dong!

"Ranma! Hermione! Someone get the door. And, whatever it is, we're not buying any!" Gareth calls from upstairs.

Knock knock-knock knock knock. Knock knock.

Hermione rips open the door. "What do you want?" she asks tersely.

A man in a fashionable black suit stands on the porch beside a woman in similar attire. The woman folds a pair of shades and tucks them into a pocket. She gazes down at Hermione.

The man lowers his fist, which was obviously raised for further knocking. "Ministry of Magic, Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. I'm Arnold Peasegood, and this is Abigail Clearwater," he says briefly. Arnold blinks quizzically at Hermione. "I was told we were to be expected."

Hermione frowns. "Mr. Waldgrave said you'd be here, but we weren't given any time frame. Would you mind waiting until tomorrow? Right now, we have guests."

"They wouldn't happen to be Muggles, would they?" Abigail asks sharply. "Perhaps two Muggle girls by the names of Kathryn and Audrey?"

"Yes. Why?" Hermione asks.

"Ah, good!" Arnold declares. "That will save us some trouble."

Abigail frowns. "No. It isn't good. They should know better than to host Muggle guests when such an obvious magical effect is present."

Hermione narrows her eyes. "Why do you need to see them?"

"We have been apprised of the incident last night," Abigail states briskly. "We are here to rectify the situation."

"May we enter?" Arnold asks politely.

Hermione steps back, allowing the two to pass through the door. "You aren't going to _obliviate _them, are you?" she asks.

"Why, of course we are," Arnold answers, as though it were obvious.

"That _is _standard procedure," adds Abigail.

"Mr. Fulke said that wouldn't be necessary," Hermione protests.

Abigail's eyes meet Hermione's. "_Mr. Fulke_ is suspended pending a disciplinary hearing," she says in a voice of cold steel. She continues to stare until Hermione looks away.

"Don't worry," Arnold says soothingly. "I'm an expert. I can be very selective."

"And what, exactly, are you going to select?" Hermione asks, turning to frown at the man.

"Oh, just what they remember of the incident last night and a few other piddling things."

"A few piddling things?" Hermione presses.

As Hermione asks her question, she steps into the family room and takes a look around.

The glass surfaces are sparkling clean. The wood finish is freshly polished and pine-scented. Kathryn's omnioculars sit innocently on the shelf next to Gareth's own binoculars, distinguishable to the casual viewer only by their brass rimmed lenses. The cauldron and the _Monster Book of Monsters_ have vanished from sight. Audrey places her bookmark between the pages of her hardback edition of _The Princess Bride, _looking much less comfortable without Ranma's robes. Kathryn is attempting to force the ring off a complicated puzzle of metal bars and chains; she looks up and smiles sheepishly as they walk in. Ranma is swiftly wiping down the final surface, but her rag seemingly vanishes from her hands as she turns to face the suited figures.

"Who are they?" Ranma inquires.

"They're here to fix the wall," Hermione answers quickly.

Abigail stares disapprovingly at Ranma. "Just _how _did you make that rag disappear, child?"

"I stuffed it in my ear, of course," Ranma answers. Ranma moves a hand to her ear, then she slowly but forcefully tugs the rag from it, jerking just a few inches free at a time. "Where else would it go?" she asks, offering the dirty cloth to the glaring woman.

Abigail narrows her eyes and somehow glares even harder.

"I suppose I could swallow it, but that always makes me sneeze," Ranma continues. She tilts her head back and drops the rag into her mouth. "ah, ahhh, Achoo!" Most of the rag apparently bursts from her left nostril, and she quickly removes the rest. Again, she offers the now somewhat slimy cloth to Abigail, who shies away from it.

"That's just gross, Ranma," Kathryn says. She turns to look at Abigail and explains, "Ranma's been doing stuff like that ever since the magician visited last year."

"A wizard?" Abigail asks sharply.

"A magician. Muggle magic. Sleight of hand. The hand-" Ranma displays her fist, the nasty rag hanging from the sides "- is faster than the eye." She opens her fist with a flourish, and the rag is gone.

"Interesting," Arnold says, staring at Ranma's hand. "You're very skilled for your age."

Abigail turns away and spends a moment straightening her collar. "We've got work to do," she announces brusquely. "We don't have time for playing around. Which wall needs fixing?"

Hermione gestures to Ranma. "It's your fault. You lead them."

Ranma glowers at her sister, then sweeps out of the room. "Come on!" she yells back irritably.

Abigail follows.

Hermione cringes guiltily, then turns to Arnold. "Keep it quiet," she warns. "And if you take _any_ more than absolutely necessary, I guarantee you'll regret it."

"What's going on?" Kathryn asks.

Hermione gazes despondently at Kathryn. Then she turns on her heel and heads after her sister, crossing the kitchen and ignoring Awelon's distressed hooting. She stops at the one-way wall, and gazes through.

Abigail and Ranma are in the sitting room behind the ensorcelled wall. Abigail holds a small, glowing device towards wall and a pensive expression on her face. Ranma watches lazily from a recliner. A suitcase lies open on the smoky glass table, filled with tools, potions, and pouches that Hermione can't even begin to identify.

"So, is it a one-way wall or a one-way hole?" Hermione asks curiously as she joins them, stepping through the doorway.

Abigail gazes narrowly at Hermione, then returns to observing the device, ignoring the question. "So it was a black, glowing spark that flew from the wand?" she asks.

"It was a lot of little sparks, and they kind'a floated slowly, not flew," Ranma answers grumpily. "And yes, I'm sure." She turns her gaze to Hermione. "Hey, where's the other guy?" she asks.

Hermione winces and looks at the ground.

"Where's who?" Arnold asks, suddenly stepping through the wall.

"Don't _do _that!" Abigail yells, stumbling back a step. "What if I was dispelling it?"

"I could see you, you know. Besides, if you managed to get me stuck in the wall, I'm sure you could reverse it. That _is_ your specialty," he says. "I take it you aren't having any luck?"

"If I could just figure out what kind of magic it is -" Abigail growls in frustration. She shakes the device in her hand and points it at the wall. "Stupid thing doesn't work."

"Well, do you know what the spell looked like?" Arnold asks helpfully.

"_Yes_," Abigail snaps.

"It could be phasing magic," Ranma suggests from her cushioned seat.

"Space magic, phasing magic and time magic can't be done with just a wand," Hermione huffs imperiously. "They need a stabilizing element. Besides, it's incredibly complex – there's no way you could do it by accident."

Ranma rolls her eyes.

Abigail, on the other hand, looks somewhat enlightened. "Believe it or not, phasing magic is consistent with the readings I've made," she says tersely, heading back to her suitcase. "You'd be _amazed_ at what people can do on accident... with or without a wand. Why, just two weeks ago I had to chase down and deflate awoman who was blown up just like a balloon and floating towards the clouds. She was young Mr. Potter's aunt, I believe."

Hermione's face adopts a pensive expression, then she scowls, then she frowns, then she once again appears contemplative.

Ranma laughs at the display. "Did your boyfriend forget to tell you something, _'neesan_?" she teases.

Hermione glowers at her sister. "Did _you _know about this?"

"No," Ranma answers. Then she smiles vibrantly and very sweetly adds, "There's no need to worry, _'neesan_. Your _boyfriend_ hasn't told me anything that he hasn't told you."

Arnold faces Hermione with a start, then grins widely. "So, Harry Potter is your -"

"Harry Potter is _not_ my boyfriend!" Hermione shouts for the world to hear.

"Be quiet down there!" Gareth shouts from upstairs.

Below, everyone hushes. They hear some soft, dulcet giggling, then a door slams shut.

"Do you think she doth protest too much?" Arnold asks as an aside to Ranma, breaking the momentary silence.

Ranma smirks, snickers, and nods.

Abigail lifts a small, finger-sized pouch from her suitcase and returns to the wall. "Stand back," she commands. "If this _is_ phasing magic, then Doctor Dobbin's Dispelling Dust should destabilize it safely. It can handle most unstabilized magics. But, well...-"

"Well, what?" Hermione demands.

Abigail doesn't answer. Instead she takes a pinch of dust from the pouch and, with pursed lips, blows it from her gloved fingers towards the wall. She immediately scrambles back several steps. The billowing dust strikes the wall, which immediately fades, cracks, and ages as though a century had passed in a minute. The paint peels and bubbles for several more seconds before coming to an abrupt halt. Abigail again lifts the glowing device towards the wall. She twists various knobs on it and observes the results of her work silently.

"Well, nothing blew up," Arnold says positively.

Hermione glares at him, then at Abigail. Arnold shrugs and Abigail ignores the effort.

"So, did it work?" Ranma asks.

"Check the other side," Abigail replies brusquely.

Hermione follows Ranma back into the kitchen. Indeed, the wall is once again whole, albeit looking as aged and worn as it does on the other side. Suddenly the wall starts repairing and repainting itself, as though rapidly aging in reverse until the wall looks even better than the others in the Granger household.

Abigail enters through the doorway. "Well, that settles that. Be sure to contact us if the aperture re-manifests," she says professionally. Then she calls back into the other room. "Have you taken care of everything on your end, Arnold?"

"Yes. We can go," Arnold answers, stepping into the kitchen. He turns and beams at the children. "You two be good, now."

Abigail smirks and starts saying, "We'll have to tell everyone about young Potter's girlfr-" pop! Abigail and Arnold vanish simultaneously.

Hermione's eyes bug out.

Ranma frowns, glancing around. "Hey, where's Kathryn and Audrey?" she asks. "Kathryn wouldn't have missed this for the world."

"About that -" Hermione starts, but Ranma dashes off to find her friends.

Ranma quickly finds them. Kathryn and Audrey are sitting on the couch in the family room, staring with rapt attention at the _blank _television.

"Kate? Audrey? What's going on?" Ranma demands.

Ranma's friends don't respond; they don't even acknowledge Ranma's presence.

"They've been entranced," Hermione answers simply, stepping into the room. "To break it they have to be distracted from the target of their entrancement. Simple actions aren't enough." She waves her hand across Kathryn's field of vision and snaps her fingers, but Kathryn doesn't react. Then Hermione wets her finger in her mouth and casually sticks it into Kathryn's ear.

Kathryn leaps away, landing against Audrey. "Hey! Don't do that!" Kathryn squeals.

"Vengeance is mine," Hermione intones, smirking.

Kathryn pouts a little but doesn't respond verbally.

Audrey blinks in confusion. "What's going on?" she asks, casually wrapping an arm around the friend that just landed on her.

"You missed them fixing the one-way hole," Ranma explains.

"One-way hole?" Kathryn asks. "I want to see a one-way hole."

Audrey blinks at Ranma, obviously even more confused.

"You've already seen it. Remember? The one between the sitting room and the kitchen?" Ranma explains, frowning. But she receives only vacant looks in return.

"They've been obliviated, Ranma," Hermione says. "They don't remember."

Ranma wheels on Hermione. "You knew about this? You did, didn't you!" she accuses. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let this happen? Why didn't you stop them?"

"You can't stop them, Ranma."

"_I _would have stopped them!" Ranma declares angrily.

"Just how would you do that, Ranma?" Hermione returns scathingly, her fiery temper igniting. "How would _you _have stopped them? Would you bodily throw them from our house? I'm sure _that_ would do a lot of good; you could be arrested for assault. Would you keep them from doing their jobs? Then they'd know you're violating the Statute of Secrecy, and you'd be in a lot of trouble for _that_. So, what would you do, Ranma?"

"I'd have found a way," Ranma growls, her brow drawn taut in concentration.

"Oh? Okay, then. Tell me. Let me hear it. Come on! The Ministry officials are here. You can dissemble; if you keep your head, you can delay them for a few minutes. They tell you they're here to _rectify _the situation, and you manage to garner that this includes _obliviating _Kathryn and Audrey. Quick! Tell me! What do you do, Ranma?"

"I hide them," says Ranma.

"What?" 

"You heard me. I hide them."

"And what if they already know that Kathryn and Audrey are in the house?" Hermione asks.

"They _wouldn't _have known if _I _answered the door," snaps Ranma. "Or if you came and _talked to me_ like you should have."

"Oh? And how would I do that? It's horribly rude to just leave them standing at the door. Besides, it would be suspicious," Hermione retorts hotly. "And since when do I answer to _you_?"

"You'd just tell them you need to fetch Mom, or something," Ranma casually answers the first question. Then she frowns, her eyes flash angrily, and she continues, "And you answer to me...- No. You answer to _them._" Ranma jabs a finger in the direction of Kathryn and Audrey, who watch the debate with some confusion. "As soon as this became about _their _minds, _their _memories... you answer to _them_. You _stole_ from them the ability to _choose_."

Hermione sways back as though struck. Almost involuntarily, she gazes at Ranma's friends. Her lower lip quivers and her mouth widens in an expression of deep sorrow. Then she abruptly turns away. She rubs her arm across her brown eyes, wiping away a few tears that threaten to spill from them, and a few tears that already have. She steels herself; when she speaks, her voice is even. "But, suppose you _did_ hide them today. Suppose you _did_ stop them. They would just return tomorrow."

"I'd hide them again!" Ranma declares victoriously.

"And the next day? And the next? What about in two weeks, when you're at Hogwarts? How will you hide Kathryn and Audrey then?" Hermione asks, frowning. "How would you hide them _every single day_?" Hermione's frown darkens. "Would you stow them in your pocket? Would you lock them in a _Fugitive_? Imprison them in an _Exile_?"

Ranma scowls and glares at her sister, unable to form a response.

Hermione continues. "And don't you think the Ministry would become just _a little_ suspicious when they couldn't ever find Kathryn and Audrey? Do you really think they wouldn't figure out that you were hiding them? Do you really believe that you wouldn't get into trouble for obstructing their work? They could arrest you. They could forbid you from attending Hogwarts. They might even expel _me_, if I didn't cooperate."

"I'd just...-" Ranma starts haltingly. After a moment, her mouth clicks shut as she actually mulls over her sister's words. Her visage fluctuates from contemplative to frowning, yet her eyes remain fixed on Hermione. Finally, and abruptly, Ranma answers, "I'd just have to _convince_ them that it was in their best interests to _not_ come back. _Ever_. They would report that they finished their job."

"Oh, _brilliant_ idea, Ranma," Hermione scoffs. "You get that from one of those Yakuza films? Triad? Tong?"

Ranma glowers at her sister.

"I can see the headlines now," Hermione continues, her voice managing a melodramatic sarcasm. "Ranma Granger – first girl ever to earn the enmity of the Ministry at age eleven. I hear Azkaban has a recent vacancy. Would you care to fill it?"

"I'd have found a way," Ranma grumbles again, still glowering at her sister. "You still should have told me."

Hermione stares back, unflinching. "Why should I have, Ranma? You can't _hide_ Kathryn and Audrey. Further, you've already considered using threat or force or whatever you believe can _convince_ a pair of Ministry officials, and that's _after_ you've had _plenty_ of time to think. If I told you earlier, you'd've just rushed off and done something _even more _foolish, and all you'd accomplish is getting us _both _into trouble. Besides, Kathryn and Audrey aren't even supposed to _know_ about magic. _It's the law_!"

"Magic?" Kathryn asks incredulously.

"Well, that does explain a few of my more unusual memories," Audrey says thoughtfully.

"It's a stupid law!" Ranma yells back, ignoring her friends.

"But it's still the law! Just because you don't like it doesn't mean you shouldn't follow it."

"You shouldn't follow a stupid law," Ranma replies with finality.

Hermione just arches a brow.

"If people didn't follow Hitler's stupid laws, millions of people would have been saved. It's by breaking stupid laws that civil rights were restored to blacks in America. There are lots of examples," Ranma explains. "It's a duty."

"That's exactly it! You need _people,_ Ranma, and _lots_ of them. One person, alone, can't fight the system. Further, if you're going to protest one law, you shouldn't do it by breaking a bunch of others; I _know _you weren't considering _civil disobedience_. But more importantly, just because _you_ don't like a law doesn't make it _stupid_. There are many legitimate reasons for the Statute of Secrecy."

Ranma narrows her eyes. "Like what? So wizards can play with people's minds without consequence? So they can wipe away memories that are just a little inconvenient for them? So wizards can steal, rape, or kill with impunity?"

"The witch trials -" Hermione starts.

"Exactly," Ranma snaps. "The _only _reason for the Statute of Secrecy is to protect wizards from _Muggle_ authority."

"Quoting Dad now, are you? But you forget that wizards were being persecuted without good reason. They _needed_ protection from Muggle authority."

"_Protection_, yes. _Immunity_, no. They should have worked to change the Muggle laws."

"They aren't immune," Hermione points out. "The wizards police their own."

"And just how does _raping_ the minds of my friends involve policing their own?" Ranma demands angrily.

"You're exaggerating."

"How do _you _know. _You've_ never had _your_ memories stolen," Ranma retorts.

"No. But I know a girl who has," Hermione responds, staring Ranma square in the eye. "And she's doing just fine."

Ranma clenches her fist and glares back at Hermione. She opens her mouth as though to shout something... then she halts herself, turns stiffly, and stomps out of the room.

Slam! The resounding echo flies from the front door.

Hermione gazes after her sister, her face adopting a more sullen expression.

"You two should really stop getting so worked up over your little arguments," Kathryn announces. "You always get so mad at each other. What's so important about witches and wizards, anyway?"

"Um, Kate? I think a few of our memories may have been erased," Audrey says. "If I understand this correctly, witches and wizards are real, and the argument wasn't entirely hypothetical."

Kathryn blinks. "Are you sure? I mean, witches and wizards, _real_? Isn't that stretching a little?"

"How did you injure your hand, Kate?" Audrey inquires. "Of what are your new _omni-_oculars capable?"

"A book- ... oh. Oh!" Kathryn's blue eyes brighten in surprise, catching brilliant rays from the setting sun. She briefly turns her gaze to the window, a contemplative expression on her glowing face.

Hermione stares down at the girls on the couch for a second, then sighs. "I might as well explain a few things," she says reluctantly. "Starting with: I'm a witch, and so is Ranma..."

-oOo-

Ranma slides to the side, narrowly dodging a shadowy panda-claw, then leaps to avoid a trio of dark, vaporous bandannas. Two of the bandannas dig deep into the surface below her before fading out, but the third curves, flying past the agile Ranma and strikes an antenna at its base. Ranma stumbles a half-step as she lands, breathing heavily.

Clang. Clunk. The antenna impacts the rooftop with a resounding metallic clatter.

The combat has continued for some time, and Ranma is exhausted. She struggles to catch her breath and recover her strength for another assault. She feels pain – a bruised rib, a stunned arm – but she doesn't let it show. Showing any weakness is dangerous with either of these opponents. A thin trail of blood flows from a scratch above her eye. The cut isn't deep, but it stings nastily... especially as salty sweat beads around it in the humid evening. The blood mixes with sweat and trickles down her cheek and slowly drips from her chin. Drip. Drip.

Ranma glances about, trying to regain her bearings.

The sun has settled, though the reds and oranges of sunset can be seen on the western horizon. The sky is the shady blue-grey of twilight, while the distant clouds are a hazy, dark violet. Electric lights flicker to life, slowly dotting the city. Ranma stands atop one of the larger buildings with a view ranging miles, though she is more interested in her immediate vicinity. On the ground below are trashy alleys and torn streets, cluttered with old garbage and shattered glass. A worn and crumbling parapet surrounds a rooftop pitted with age and strewn with small blocks of concrete and scrap metal. Finally, there are her two opponents: the shadow-panda and the shadow-umbrella-boy.

Ranma eyes them warily, preparing to intercept another assault. Alone, either of them provides a decent challenge for her – they have greater height, reach, strength, mass, and prodigious endurance in addition to excellent speed and skill. Together... well, she had come here wanting a challenge. They are what showed up. Considering how the fight has been going so far, Ranma's just thankful that the challenge isn't greater, like the shadow-ghoul or the shadow-gnome.

The shadow-panda rushes forward and attacks, this time throwing a complicated series of kicks and punches that Ranma barely has the energy to dodge. A moment later, the shadow-umbrella-boy joins in, charging her flank. Allowing herself to take a heavy, painful panda-kick to her shoulder, Ranma captures the shadow-umbrella-boy's charge and flings him into the shadow-panda, bowling them both backwards. The pair crashes into a mess of metal – it had been the building's main air-conditioning unit before shadow-umbrella-boy destroyed it. The shadows land in an undignified pile of tangled limbs and metal with a loud clanging and clattering, scattering metal into a wider pile. While struggling to free itself, the shadow-panda, for some reason, bops the shadow-umbrella-boy with a shadow-sign. The two begin to scuffle amongst themselves.

Huff. Huff. Ranma uses the opportunity to catch her breath. She also stretches a bit, working out the tightening knots in her burning muscles.

Despite the injuries, despite the pain, despite the challenge of the fight, and in the face of anything remotely resembling common sense, Ranma's attention is focused almost entirely _inwards_... which might go a long way towards explaining Ranma's condition.

At the moment, she is contemplating the beings in front of her.

While Ranma has forgotten the origins of these shadow-beings, she now understands that they are probably the result of accidental magic. _You'd be amazed what people can do on accident... with or without a wand_, that Ministry witch had said this evening, and this morning, Ollivander mentioned something about her magic having a darkness aspect.

But their shapes? Their behaviors? These aren't creatures Ranma would design consciously. They came from dreams. And while Ranma vaguely remembers having remembered them from dreams, the strange dreams themselves have long since faded from her memory. The last one was over a year ago, something about... Ranma can't remember. More recently, Ranma's few dreams have been contemporary, based on her friends, family, food, fighting, movies, cooking, school, violins... and _cats_.

Ranma shudders. She has been suffering a recurring nightmare, a really weird one, for almost five months now. _Cats_ in white lab coats are giving her a _CAT_ scan and _cat_aloging their findings. But she overhears their nefarious plan! Buried in her belly is the crucial _cat_alyst to cause a _cat_astrophic _cat_aclysm! A _cat_ with a surgeon's mask walks over to Ranma with a jagged saw and a thick tube... a _cat_heter, Ranma believes, but of obscene and painful proportions. Ranma panics and pulls the lever which wasn't there a moment before, but it makes sense in the dream, and the act _cat_apults her from the bed. Somehow, she ends up in the _cat_acombs and tries to escape, but a swarm of _cats_ gives chase, whipping their a _cat_-o'-nine-tails and corralling her like _cat_tle, until they _cat_ch her at a dead end. Finally, they climb all over her and _cat_erwaul and she goes _cat_atonic – at which point she wakes up, panicking and sweaty.

She blames that dream _entirely_ on Mr. Ogden.

Last Spring, Mr. Ogden had punished her by making her copy _every_ entry that starts with the letters c-a-t from his dictionary... which is fortunately _much_ smaller than Hermione's. Further, he forced her to perform it in neat, flowing script, redoing any page with so much as a smudge or ink blot. And how did he justify such a cruel and unusual punishment? Two words: aversion therapy. Mr. Ogden has always been very practical when it comes to punishments. He had decided that Ranma would either diminish her aversion to cats or develop an aversion to causing trouble, and either lesson was alright with him.

Admittedly, Ranma managed to finish the job with _only_ a total of six hours of detention – she had cheated by writing with both hands at once. But still... Wasn't that punishment just a _little_ excessive for "bringing out the banshee" on the morning intercom? Ranma thought it a wonderful joke – as did April and June, who had suggested it to her.

Ranma pauses. How did Mr. Ogden learn about her fear of cats, anyway?

Crunch. Ranma reels back as a shadow-fist meets her face, bloodying her nose. Slam. A shadow-leg catches her in the side and she slides towards the edge of the roof. Groan. Ranma pushes herself to her feet, wipes her nose, shakes away the dizziness, dodges an incoming blow, then rushes in. She begins the counterattack, refreshed with her second wind.

For a while, Ranma simply delights in the cruel, senseless violence of smashing the surprised shadow-panda around the rooftop. For Ranma, there is something primal, something intensely satisfying about that act of catching the shadow-panda off-balance then pummeling and pummeling and pummeling without giving the sneaky bastard a chance to recover initiative. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the shadow-panda does the same to her on a regular basis and Ranma feels utterly no guilt for beating a shadow.

After several minutes, the shadow-umbrella-boy intercedes; it had been looming on the parapet with a smirk clearly visible in its body language, as though delighting in the punishment to its partner. It leaps into battle and viciously kicks Ranma in the side, causing her to slide several feet across harsh concrete.

Ranma stands up, winces briefly at the new scrapes and bruises, then brushes herself off and moves back into battle.

Eventually, she focuses her mind on the issues that brought her here in the first place: memory. Ultimately, dreams fade away and memories are forgotten. That's the natural order of things.

But to forcibly destroy memories...

Ranma growls and launches an extra strong punch at shadow-umbrella-boy. The strike catches the boy in the chest, launching him backwards... but the shadow-panda makes her regret it by immediately grabbing her extended arm and throwing her. She lands on her feet... on the parapet, right at the edge of the building. After glancing down nervously, she rushes back into battle.

How could Hermione justify such a thing? Some things are just plain wrong... like fat, naked people on trampolines. There's simply nothing that can possibly justify it. Ever.

Ugh. Now _there's_ a memory Ranma would _pay_ to forget. The things you see while aimlessly wandering a city by rooftop... especially a city lacking adequate decency laws...

Ranma pauses... then immediately ducks an incoming fist, and makes a mental note to stop pausing while she thinks. She fights for a few minutes longer before locating her derailed train of thought.

Oh yes... _justification_... which is essentially an excuse good enough that you can use it _before_ the action that would get you into trouble, as Gareth once so succinctly put it – a good excuse gets you forgiveness, a good justification gets you permission, and it's easier to get forgiveness than permission.

So, with regards to obliviation, when is it justified?

Well, obliviation is obviously alright when permission is given, supposing the obliviator is skilled enough to do a precise job. Ranma knows there is a market for people that want to forget things. Many people spend a lot of money ineffectually attempting to drown bad memories in alcohol.

But when is obliviation justified without consent?

Ranma wants to say it is _never_ justified, but, alas, her mind almost immediately proposes a plausible situation: war. In war, losing a secret might equate to losing hundreds or thousands of lives. Loose lips sink ships; silence means security; et cetera. The lives of men shouldn't be balanced against the sanctity of some individual's mind. Even someone whom the military can trust with its highest secrets might still be subject to magical mind-reading. Ranma can't deny that, in this case, obliviation is justified. If the only feasible alternatives to obliviation are murder or imprisonment, obliviation might be the only humanitarian solution.

Ranma frowns, not liking _something_ about that reasoning, but unable to find anything technically wrong with it.

Ranma primarily determines right and wrong based on feelings. If it feels right, then it's right. If it feels wrong, then it's wrong. It isn't an unusual approach to morality, depending on this _sense_ of right and wrong. But arguments based on feelings simply flop and die like a fish out of water at the battlefield also known as the Granger dinner table. If Ranma is to win this argument against Hermione, she will need much better ammunition than _feelings_.

And Ranma Granger _always _wins.

... She just needs a little more time to figure out _how._

Of course, that's not the only battle she needs to win. The two shadows continue their attack. Ranma dances back, narrowly avoiding another assault, and stops near the fallen antenna. With a quick flip from her foot, the antenna flies to her hand. She rushes into combat, expertly wielding the antenna like a staff. Swoosh! Whump! Whump! Whoosh!

Ranma has seen a movie in which hardened criminals are mind-wiped, brainwashed, then returned to society... where they become happy, productive citizens. In general, they are a whole lot happier than they were as criminals. However, the treatment was imperfect; though it was rare, some people relapsed. At the beginning of the movie, one such ex-criminal regains his memories then, after faking for a day, voluntarily returns to the institute to be fixed so he can return to being happy with his drudge job, crappy apartment, and good friends. The movie, however, focuses on one man who recovers his memory and learns that he _wasn't_ a criminal. He had been mind-wiped for illegitimate reasons: to protect some major conspiracy secret about how the ominous _They_ were wiping people's minds for various illegitimate reasons. By the time the movie ends, the conspiracy is revealed, people are in an uproar, the institution is destroyed, and crime is beginning to rise once again.

At the beginning of the movie, Ranma had viewed all the mind-wipes as legitimate. They struck her as _wrong_, but they were supposedly legal. And she couldn't deny their effectiveness. Crime was at an all-time low. Brainwashed ex-criminals were happily doing the grunge-jobs of society like bagging groceries and janitorial work. The society was almost Utopian. But the moment Ranma realized that the power to mind-wipe people was being abused, the institution took a far more ominous aspect.

Obviously the abuse was wrong, but what about the institution? And would an answer apply in her debate with Hermione? Her instincts say it does – it _feels _like it could relate. But how? And why? Again, Ranma has trouble connecting things.

... but only in her mind.

Slam! The staff connects with the shadow-panda's side, sending the great bear hurtling into the pile of metal debris. Ranma reverses and jabs towards the shadow-umbrella boy. Her second target dodges, sliding past the attack, and grabs the staff one-handed. Ranma smirks, then, pushing her two smaller arms to their limit, shoves the opposite end of the staff upwards and towards the shadow-umbrella-boy's body. She launches the shadow-umbrella-boy over the edge of the building.

Ring out! ... What? The shadow-umbrella-boy casually opens his umbrella and, impossibly, begins floating back towards the rooftop like a dark Mary Poppins. While returning, he flings several black, vaporous bandannas towards Ranma.

Ranma frowns while casually dodging the attacks. Doesn't that shadow-umbrella mass at least thirty kilos? Growling, she rushes several steps forward and throws the antenna like a spear, sending it hurtling towards the shadow-umbrella-boy.

The shadow-umbrella-boy attempts to dodge, shifting the massive umbrella and, thus, his center of mass... but his agility in the air isn't sufficient. Slam! The antenna reverberates, striking the shadow-umbrella-boy near his umbrella-carrying shoulder. Both boy and antenna fall in a descending arc, crashing through a window on a building opposite the street. Ranma gazes over the parapet, watching as the shadow-umbrella-boy fades out of existence in the deeper shadows of the building.

Ranma smirks. One down. Sensing attack, she dodges left to avoid a panda-claw-thrust, then blocks a swipe to the head. She punches back, striking the shadow-panda under its arm. One to go.

Ranma and the shadow-panda begin a close-range fight. Grapples, throws, elbows, knees, and joint locks abound. It isn't their preferred style, but failing to train in it would be a mistake. The panda wields its greater height and girth to advantage, and Ranma counters by becoming greased lightning – improbable to catch, impossible to hold, and never striking in the same way twice.

Ranma growls in frustration. She _still_ can't figure out what is inherently wrong about the institution of mind-wiping and brainwashing hardened criminals... what it is that makes her _feel_ it is wrong. Unfortunately, while it briefly crosses Ranma's mind that the _potential_ for the abuse of power is what bothers her, she dismisses the thought. Ranma is hardly the girl to think about power in terms of its potential for abuse. Thus, it never occurs to Ranma that discussing the institution's potential for corruption combined with it's ability to _hide _that corruption would be _very _germane to the debate regarding the wizarding world's use of obliviation. Instead, Ranma finds herself considering thoughts of a more utilitarian nature. The institution of mind-wiping and brainwashing criminals leads to diminished custody costs, an increase in society's productive workers, and happier people – albeit, mostly ex-criminals. It might even lead to lower crime. None of that seems wrong.

... But it sure seems a lot like killing the original person and replacing them with a drone.

Yet, isn't that the whole point of jail-time in the first place? Of punishment in general? Mr. Ogden punishes Ranma and society punishes criminals in the vain hope of reforming them, so that they never again perform the offensive act that merited punishment. If successful, the offender isn't truly the same person – he or she has changed, hopefully for the better. But some offenders are... What is the word Hermione used? _Incorrigible._ Against hardened criminals, corporal punishment and custody have almost no effect. As soon as they escape their punishment, they return to committing crimes. Why would any reasonable society continue to use such an ineffective means when brainwashing and mind-wiping is a thousand times more effective _and_ cheaper?

Of course, simply killing them is effective and cheap, too. Dead criminals, no matter how hardened, never commit offensive acts again.

Ranma suddenly frowns. Maybe she has it wrong. The purpose of the criminal _justice_ system is _justice_, which is not the same as reform. And criminal justice is all about making sure that criminals get what they deserve – retribution. It's about ensuring that their crimes will catch up with them, and ensuring that the punishment fits the crime. And, Ranma supposes, it is also about deterrence, warning the offender and others away from the offensive behavior. It wouldn't do to give someone a slap on the wrist for murder. What sort of example would that set? But neither is it right to cut someone's hand off for stealing a pack of bubblegum. That's just too harsh.

Is that what she finds offensive about the mind-wipe and brainwash? That it doesn't serve justice? It seems to Ranma that the mind-wipe and brainwash is a rather _harsh_ punishment. It's the death of memory, the death of personality... the death of a soul. It's an entirely different sort of "capital" punishment, true, but almost as thorough. On the other hand, in the movie it was only to be used on hardened criminals. Many of them deserved death for their crimes.

Ranma sighs. This line of thinking isn't getting her anywhere.

It doesn't strike Ranma as particularly odd that she, at age eleven, is considering philosophical, moral, and ethical issues far beyond the ken of any normal child. She just wants to win a debate. What _does _strike her is... the shadow-panda.

Thud. Thump. "Oof." Crackle. Pop.

Okay, maybe _impossible to hold_ was an exaggeration, Ranma admits, as her twisted body sings a strange and horrifying symphony of...-

Snap. Crunch. Crack. Grind. Groan.

-... pain. Ranma spits out pieces of shattered concrete and struggles to breathe. Her nose and cheek grate painfully against abrasive rooftop. She takes a moment to analyze her situation.

The panda has managed to capture her in an arm-lock. Its legs are scissored around her bicep and its paw grasps her wrist, putting the massive pressure on her elbow and shoulder. With its free hand, the shadow-panda playfully tugs at her fingers, brutally stretching several backwards, though not quite breaking them. Finally, with its entire weight on her back and shoulder, it casually rocks back and forth, slowly grinding her face and shoulder into the concrete surface.

... At least it isn't _hell's cradle_. Ranma has never defeated that move except by zealously avoiding it.

Ranma is tempted to yield, to submit. If she does, the pain will stop and the shadow will fade away. She knows this. She feels its teeth nibbling playfully on her fingers, not quite cutting – a reminder that she's at the shadow-panda's mercy. Yes... Ranma is _very_ tempted to yield, but today she wants _victory,_ and, while she knows that her arm might be broken, she also knows that the shadow-panda won't _actually_ bite off her fingers – the shadows generally restrict themselves to the normal rules of sparring... or, at least, sparring as Ranma understands it. So, taking rash action, Ranma doesn't submit.

Ranma wedges her free hand underneath her body as the shadow-panda rocks back and forth to grind her face into the pavement. Then she focuses herself, her breathing, and shoves downwards with all her might. Success! The effort launches both her and the shadow-panda skyward. Ranma immediately flips to adjust her body into a less precarious position then begins pummeling the shadow-panda.

Under her blows, the shadow-panda releases her arm. It then immediately attempts to scissor its legs around her waist and punch her, which Ranma narrowly avoids and blocks in succession. By the time the pair reach the ground, they are once again involved in their close-combat sparring.

What was Hermione's argument anyway? Ranma thinks suddenly. Was Hermione even arguing that obliviation was justified? That what those ministry officials did to Kathryn and Audrey was somehow acceptable? It would hardly be the first time Ranma and Hermione quarreled but only argued past each other due to miscommunication. Something may have been spoken incorrectly. Something may have been misunderstood. The adoptive siblings _rarely_ think on the same wavelength; the answer to _Are you thinking what I'm thinking?_ is always _No._

Ranma wracks her brain, trying to recall the details of their most recent fight.

How had it proceeded? Oh, yes. First Hermione accused Ranma of being incapable of protecting her friends.

Ranma frowns and throws a particularly vicious elbow-strike into the shadow-panda's throat.

_I'd have found a way,_ Ranma assures herself.

Second, Hermione pointed out that one person, alone, can't fight the system – an idea that Ranma begrudgingly grants in this case. Without the advantage of surprise, Ranma knows that even one wizard or witch could be difficult to defeat. They can apparate away or buzz about on brooms and do evil things like turn her into a c-c-... a toad, or levitate her so she can't move, or... or _obliviate away her skills_.

Crunch. Ranma doesn't recall exactly what she just did to the shadow-panda's left arm, but it didn't sound very nice. She mentally shrugs. It's just a magical construct anyway.

Anyhow, if defeating even one wizard is difficult, then taking on the whole Ministry is impossible. But, Ranma thinks shrewdly, someone with enough power _could_ fight the whole Ministry. Alone. So, Hermione's statement isn't entirely true.

_Not that such a person exists, _Ranma adds arrogantly... more out of habit than firm belief. _After all, I'm the best._

_Not when it comes to wizardry_, pipes a tiny, tinny sounding part of her mind.

Ranma casts that thought aside as blasphemous and tries to recall what happened next in her argument with Hermione. Hermione said something... what was it? ... something about _civil disobedience_. Ranma cannot recall exactly what Hermione said, but she remembers Hermione saying the words. Ranma scoffs. Why would Hermione even bring that up? The thought of _civil disobedience_ hadn't even crossed Ranma's mind; Hermione should know her _imoutochan _well enough to expect that. Why waste time with _that_ inefficient tactic when the tightly controlled application of violence and threat work so much more expediently? Ranma rolls her eyes... which, unfortunately, removes them from the ongoing combat.

Slam! A shadow-panda-paw carries a powerful right hook hardacross Ranma's temple.

Ranma reels. For several seconds, black spots dance in her eyes. Thud-thud-thud-crunch!-thud. The rather angry shadow-panda continues to unload a rapid series of kicks and powerful punches, using its one good arm. The blows into the child's chest break one rib and bruise the rest... which makes them hurt only _slightly_ worse than they already did. Ranma drops into heavy defense, regaining her bearings before rejoining the fight.

She finds her thoughts derailed by the blows. Where was she? Third? No, Fourth. Fourth, Hermione had... umm... Ranma mentally ticks them off: protecting her friends, fighting the system, civil disobedience, Statute of Secrecy...

Fourth, Hermione said that the Statute of Secrecy is legitimate.

Ranma almost laughs. Hermione _hadn't_ said that obliviation is justified. She had said that the Statute of Secrecy is legitimate. And, thus, Ranma now has her strategy for victory. All she has to do is approach Gareth with the right questions over dinner, play a little devil's advocate, then pass the baton to Hermione. Gareth _hates_ the Statute of Secrecy; he almost certainly has a well-formulated argument against it that he hasn't had much opportunity to espouse. Further, the logical war-machine known as Gareth is _much_ better at debate than Ranma and Hermione. He will tear Hermione's arguments to shreds; Hermione will cave in, and Ranma will win!

Victory!

Grinning, Ranma catches the shadow-panda in the simple but effective sleeper hold – her arms wrapped tightly around its neck, slowly suffocating its "brain". One wouldn't expect it to work on these shadows, considering that they have neither heart nor lungs... nor brain, for that matter. But, in Ranma's experience, they react to attacks in much the same way that creatures of flesh and blood would... albeit, extremely strongand hardy creatures of flesh and blood.

Attempting to escape, the shadow-panda tries to elbow her, but panda bodies aren't well designed for elbowing. It claws and scratches at her arms, drawing thin lines of blood from her tough skin, but she just grimaces and tightens the hold. It attempts to slam her into the concrete, but she sticks her legs out and catches herself. It repeats the process, this time reaching back to capture her legs so she can't brace against the fall...

Slam! Oof. Ranma strikes the pavement with the whole mass of the shadow-panda atop her, crushing the air from her lungs and jabbing her iron amulet painfully into her bruised and broken ribs. For several seconds, black spots decimate her vision. Ouch! Feeling addled and agonized, baffled and battered, she tightens the sleeper hold that slackened to the blow.

The panda rises with Ranma still clinging to its neck, hanging from its taller form with her legs barely reaching its waist. Wobbling a bit, it trudges and totters towards the center of the rooftop. Then, leaping again, it begins to fall into the pile of jagged metal scrap.

Vicious, eh? Ranma can do vicious.

Ranma releases the choke-hold, slides down the shadow-panda's back a few feet, slipping through the shadow-panda's faltering grip. She wraps her legs tightly around the shadow-panda's girth, as though mounting a horse. Quickly, she swings her own body backwards until she's hanging upside down and reaches for the ground below her. She plants her hands against a few safe spots between the metal scraps. Continuing to rotate, and using a little of her own brute strength, she redirects the fall into an unorthodox suplex.

Slam! Clatter! The shadow-panda crashes headfirst into the pile of jagged metal scrap.

Ranma crawls away, breathing heavily, and looks back.

The shadow-panda lies there, unmoving amongst the rubble. Its whole body flickers then slowly begins to fade away.

Ha ha! Ranma crows victoriously. Get up from _that!_

The shadow-panda's flickering, fading form suddenly stabilizes and darkens dramatically. For a moment it lies still. Then, with a groan only seen in its body language, the panda painfully pushes itself to its feet. It rubs its temples between its paws, then brushes off a few pieces of metal scrap that rose with it. Finally, it turns to face Ranma.

Ranma groans, but does her best to shake off her own injuries. Her neck and knuckles pop and crackle as she rolls her head and flexes her joints.

Then she leaps into combat, red braid dancing behind her, and the shadow leaps to join her. The two collide in mid-air, throwing punches and kicks. They literally fight to remain in the air. But gravity ultimately asserts itself. They strike only a few more times before bouncing away.

Ranma is happy at this development – they have returned to the more familiar Saotome Musabetsu Kakuto Ryuu, an aerial style that focuses on speed and misdirection. While Ranma doesn't know the _name_ of the style, she does feel very comfortable with it. She lacks the reach, leverage, mass, and strength needed to out-wrestle the shadow-panda. In the air, Ranma is no longer at such a significant disadvantage; the shadow-panda's reach is still an important advantage, but the shadow-panda's greater mass becomes a handicap. In the air, the value of agility and power is greater than that of leverage and strength. Further, the shadow-panda is still handicapped with its lame left arm; Ranma now holds the advantage.

Ranma doesn't hesitate to utilize that advantage. Using a deceptive combination, Ranma lands a powerful backhand strike to the shadow-panda's left temple, punching through its limited defenses and sending the shadow-panda reeling. She casually dodges the panda's return strike. Ranma grins wickedly, and the fight continues, with Ranma brutally and repeatedly beating the shadow-panda.

Shortly thereafter, she is back to her pseudo-brooding.

_So_, Ranma wonders. _Why was I angry at Hermione, again? _

Ranma frowns in concentration, trying to answer that question.

Then her features darken. She remembers. Hermione _manipulated_ Ranma in order that Kathryn and Audrey could be _obliviated_ without Ranma's intervention. She justified the action by saying that Ranma: one – could not protect Kathryn and Audrey from the Ministry in the long run, two – would have attempted to do so anyway, and three – would, in the process, have angered the Ministry with both Granger girls, likely with dire consequences.

Then Ranma sighs, making sure to avoid a panda-claw spear strike as she does so.

After phrasing Hermione's justifications, Ranma can't bring herself to blindly deny they are reasonable, especially if they are right – blind denial or naïve acceptance of anything is "a crime against reason" in the Granger household. And, considering her normal modus operandi, Ranma has to admit that it is _within the realm of possibility_ that Hermione _just might_ be right.

Ranma considers it for a while longer.

... Oh, heck. Hermione _was_ right. Hermione was _right_... on all three points.

But that doesn't make Ranma feel any better. It doesn't justify Kathryn and Audrey having their memories stolen, especially not to keep some stupid secret. And, while Ranma no longer blames Hermione for her action on an intellectual level, Ranma still _feels_ betrayed. The manipulation, the deceit, the-

Snag! Ouch! The shadow-panda's _supposedly_ lame left arm snaps out to catch Ranma's long, red braid, putting an abrupt and painful halt to Ranma's brooding; Ranma curses and credits the shadow-bastard for its deviousness.

Whoosh! Ranma hurtles through the air towards the mound of metal near the center of the rooftop. Crunch! Scraaape! Ranma lands roughly, planting her feet precariously on either side of a nasty-looking, flesh-shredding, serrated edge of ex-air-conditioning-unit; torn tines tower dangerously close to her crotch. Beneath her feet, twisted metal scrapes and sounds with the tone of steel on stone, scarring the roof and gouging her heels. Ranma attempts to catch her balance, but...-

Thump! Oof! A shadow-panda-foot slams into the child's tiny chest, landing in the girl's gut and slamming upwards towards her heart, bruising all sorts of vital organs and forcing air from her lungs in a single gush. The kick launches her skywards, but the shadow-panda controls the motion with its grip on her arm-length braid. It shifts, rotates, impels her into another tight arc, then releases...

Whiz! Ranma flies, tumbling through the air.

Ranma struggles to breathe, but air only comes in small, tiny, painful gasps. She struggles to see through the encroaching blackness that enshrouds the fading light, but her dying vision can't be resuscitated without air. Ranma struggles to maintain some sense of orientation, but her dying vision offers no purchase against her dizziness.

Slam! Ranma craters a concrete wall, and it crumbles upon her. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Chunks of concrete strike her head, ringing her ears like hammers against a gong. Blackness blasts away her sight.

Ranma sloughs to the ground. Spots of light float across her eyes – little stars, orbiting.

_Breathe!_ Ranma gasps painfully, forcing herself to deeply draw upon the agonizing air. The spinning world slows to a mere leftwards crawl. With creaking, popping, protesting limbs, she digs herself out of the rubble and pushes herself to her feet. Ranma searches the rooftop for her dark adversary. She looks left, following her dizzied perceptions, but the shadow-panda is not there. She looks right but can't make out any dark blobs against the growing night in that direction, either. Finally, she looks up, and she sees it, hidden in the last vestiges of twilight – a huge, dark shadow, falling from above, carrying something...

SLAM! The shadow-panda drives a hulking mess of concrete and rebar onto Ranma's skull.

Consciousness flees. Darkness conquers her world.

-oOo-

Cough. Cough. Cough. Ranma releases a sputtering series of deep, rattling coughs. Fluids jettison from her mouth and dribble from her lips: phlegm and saliva, viscous gray with cement dust and speckled red with blood. She continues coughing for almost a minute before the fit ceases.

_... join us ..._

Her blue eyes flutter open. She finds herself staring into the unusually bright, starry skies. Thin wisps of clouds hang suspended in the still, sordid air, half hiding the slender, silver, crescent moon. How long has it been? Ten minutes? An hour? The last vestiges of twilight have long since passed, vanishing with her consciousness.

_... join us ..._

Ranma moans. She shifts, lifting herself from her bed of concrete and steel. Her stiff joints, sore muscles, and injured ribs protest the movement. Rubble rolls clear as she rises inexorably into sitting position. Hesitantly, Ranma lifts a hand and tests her tender ribs: bruised, bruised, bruised, beaten, bludgeoned, broken – she winces, but she continues. She learns that while five of her ribs are fractured – two by the shadow-panda's final kick – most of them are already mending. But she frowns in alarm; one rib is mending awkwardly, having been forced out of place by the blanket of debris. She flinches. Crack! With a swift two-fingered stroke, she breaks the rib again. Then she teases it back into a position where, hopefully, it will set correctly.

_... Join us! ..._

Ranma fights the impulse to just fall back asleep. She takes several wheezing, rattling breaths. She hacks up more grayish ooze, and spits it to the side. Lungs clear, Ranma breathes deeply... then exhales, in... and out, slowly... and evenly.

Beyond the sound of her breathing, the world is silent, but...

_... become ..._

Ranma shudders, feeling uneasy.

Fishing around in her pocket, Ranma procures a small, silver mirror. She sets it ritually on the ground. A second later, a simple white handkerchief follows. Then, one after another, she pulls out a comb, a stick of instant stain remover, a small sewing kit, a bar of soap, and a canteen. Her oops-I-broke-curfew-again survival kit at ready, Ranma's hands blaze into action. Swish, spit, wipe, wipe, sew-sew-sew...-

_... become ..._

She halts. She peers into the mirror. She is ready to go. She has become... cleaner, if not entirely clean. Her hair is free of debris and back in place, flowing down her back in a wide braid that reaches deep into her hair, but it is a little gray, sporting some stubborn cement dust. Her torn clothes are repaired with thread... indistinguishable from new in the dim light; however, the worn patches and abrasive damage cannot be so easily fixed. Her face and hands are washed entirely – she doesn't appear quite so fresh as she did that morning, but she no longer looks ready to join an army of evil dead. Ranma gives herself one last thorough check before she pockets the mirror.

_... the darkness ..._

Ranma stands and peers into the surrounding darkness. Above, the stars shine brightly; she sees hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands where normally a meager dozen are seen above the skies of London. Below, as far as she can see, the city is dark, desolate, silent, still – except for a roiling fog that obscures the streets, rolling between tenebrous towers. The few cars she can distinguish are cold, quiet, empty... abandoned. Abandoned is a good word. Everything she sees could be the result of a catastrophic power failure and a massive fog off a nearby river, but this surreal city-scape feels... abandoned.

_... shows the way ..._

Ranma directs her attention to the rooftop and her eyes narrow. She sees the antenna, standing upright, pointing towards the stars. She examines it for a moment longer, then continues searching her surroundings. Her eyes fall upon the pile of metal scrap that was once a viable air-conditioning unit. When she turns again, the antenna is gone, severed near the base, leaving only a stump. Is this a dream? She reaches up to pinch herself, but she stops, hand half-lifted; her ribs remind her that, yes, she feels pain plenty well.

_... our god ..._

"Is everything as it should be, Andhera?" a deep, mocking voice asks, shredding the silence.

Ranma wheels about. Her body tenses. "Who are you?" she demands.

"Such hostility, Andhera... Tell me – what have I done to deserve it?" the resonant, baritone words answer her. Seated lazily on the silent air-conditioning unit is the speaker – a dusky man, impeccably dressed in a shiny white suit – complete with white tie, white shirt, and sparkling white shoes. He casually tosses a golden apple between his dark-skinned hands.

Ranma's eyes narrow dangerously. "Who are you?" she repeats.

"I am an echo, a reflection, cascading ripples in a dirty pool, a broken image of false proclamation," the stranger in white answers, smirking. He catches the bright yellow apple in his left hand and slides off the air-conditioning unit.

_an echo, a whisper, a sound that only you can hear, we whisper whisper whisper into your ears, your fears. meow. _

Ranma starts skittishly. Did she hear something? Someone else? A c-c-... She nervously glances around.

The slender stranger slips away and strolls to the building's crumbling parapet, absently rolling the apple between his long fingers. "I am a dream, fantasy forged in burning desires, empty embers, lost to the fires, fading quickly," he continues poetically.

_a dream, serene. A scream! A nightmare!_

Ranma jerks, eyes panning, searching, scanning behind her, finding only darkness. She heard... no, she felt... brushing at her mind, a shiver down her spine. But there is no voice. There is no sound. There is nobody else around.

The dark man overlooks the silent city, standing quietly, gazing at the stars beyond the horizon. After a moment, he adds, "I am illusion, cast by your mind, a vain attempt to capture truth, a picture painted by the blind." He lifts the apple to his lips, as though to take a bite, but halts. He glances back at Ranma and adds, "In any case, you should not be asking who _I_ am when you don't even know who _you _are."

_Who are you? Who are you? Who are you_?

Ranma's breath quickens. She lifts a hand to her chest; the amulet is there, hard and cold against her skin. She clutches at it through her shirt, seeking its comfort, seeking its protection... but it has none to offer.

_Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?_

"I am...-" Ranma starts haltingly, unsure how to finish the sentence. Her eyes blur. Her head swims. Possible answers materialize and fade away, dying before she can fully realize them. _I am she who dances before fires in a forest of ash. _I'm a martial artist, master of my body._ I am death and rebirth, dusk and dawn, light and shadow, the twilight goddess, holy mother of her people._ I'm- I'm- I'm-... Ranma struggles. Her mind grasps an image – Hermione yelling, hands on hips, indignant.I'm impudent imp, brazen brat, obnoxious twit, good cook, great looks, lots of wit, sister to Hermione, friend to Kathryn and Audrey, holy terror of the Headwings orchestra._ I'm Andhera. _ "I'm Ranma!"

Her name echoes, crashing throughout the somber city, silencing the whispers.

"A _name_, Andhera?" the swarthy stranger laughs scornfully. He turns towards her. His face displays mild disappointment. "A _name _is not _who_ you are. A _name _is an answer to an entirely different question."

Ranma focuses on the man in front of her. "Fine, then," she growls caustically. "What is your name?"

"My name?" The man gives a wide, toothy smile – a Cheshire grin shining through the night. "I have so many, and you once knew them all. Perhaps, though, you have forgotten? In that case, I forgive you. It's easy to forget, Andhera. We both know how _fragile_ memories can be – how they can be forgotten, escaping the mind like smoke between fingers; manipulated, putty in the hands of misplaced trust; stolen like words from an open diary, or shredded with a whisper. They can even be sealed."

_... locked away, blocked away ..._

Ranma's visage darkens and she averts her eyes. "Go away!" she demands petulantly.

"No."

Ranma snarls then abruptly turns and leaps from the building. She flies through the air to the next... where, upon approach, she can make out broken remnants of an air-conditioning unit, concrete debris, crumbling parapets, a severed stump of antenna, and the sinister stranger who claims to have many names.

"Change of plans?" the madman mocks as Ranma lands. "Did you miss me?"

"What do you want?" Ranma snaps.

The man smirks. "I want you to look at this mirror and tell me what you see," the man says, bowing slightly, stepping aside, apple in hand and arms spread wide. Behind him stands a full-length mirror, facing Ranma.

Ranma unconsciously fixes her hair and picks at her clothes as she gazes into the mirror. After making those fine adjustments, she tersely says, "I see me."

"Is that all?" the man sneers. "How truly narcissistic..."

Ranma casts her fierce, piercing eyes in his direction but refrains from sniping. She turns and examines the mirror further then clarifies, "I see the stars and the sky, the ground beneath me and the antenna behind me, the wispy clouds and crescent moon, the silent city's foggy gloom... and I see me."

"And yet you don't see the mirror standing directly in front of you?" the man asks.

Ranma glowers.

"Tell me, Andhera, is it yourself that you see in this mirror? Or is it an image of yourself?"

"An image," Ranma grumps begrudgingly.

The man gestures; arm and apple sweep across the horizon. "And when you gaze upon the stars, the sky, the ground, the antenna..." He trails off and approaches the tall metal shaft. "Do you see this antenna, or do you see an image of it?"

Ranma eyes the antenna warily. Was it even there a moment before? Did she not throw it from the rooftop earlier? But her memory is fuzzy, muddled, confused... Maybe this is a different building. She remembers jumping. Maybe it has been there all along. But rather than answering, Ranma digs in her heels and folds her arms. "I have already told you what I saw in the mirror. Now, _go away_. I don't want you here. I don't want to answer your questions. I just want to wake up and go home."

The man chuckles – hollow laughter in the sordid air. "Do you believe you are dreaming?" he asks. "Do you believe it even matters?"

Ranma glares at him, stubbornly refusing to answer.

Crunch! The man bites into his golden treat and chews slowly, savoring every morsel – honey-sweet, tart, crisp; just watching is enough to make Ranma salivate. As he chews, he gazes at the stars, but after he swallows, he looks over at Ranma as though noticing her for the first time. "Oh, pardon me," he says. "It's terribly rude of me to eat in front of you like that. Would you like one?" He reaches into his white jacket with his dark hand and withdraws another bright yellow apple. He offers it to Ranma. "You know what they say – an apple today might keep the doctor away."

Ranma's mouth quickly dries and she backs up a step, shaking her head, No. She eyes the apple warily.

"Oh, well, maybe later, then," the man says, pocketing the extra apple. He takes another bite of his own before speaking. "You don't have to answer my questions, Andhera. But why not? Are you afraid to do so? Are you afraid of me? Is that why you ran away earlier?"

"I don't trust you," Ranma states.

"With good reason, I'm sure," the man says, grinning. "But I haven't asked you anything personal; this isn't the sort of question that requires your trust. That is, unless you don't trust your own answer."

"You've asked personal questions," Ranma snarls. "You asked me who I am!"

"No, I didn't," the man replies smoothly. "I only said that you don't know who you are." He gestures to the antenna again. "So, tell me. Do you see an antenna, or an image of one?"

Ranma stares at him for a long moment, then stalks over to the antenna and kicks it, snapping it at its base. It clangs and clatters against the ground and rolls away. "It's the antenna," she concludes.

"What makes you so sure, Andhera? Because it can be felt, heard, seen? All are possible in a dream. According to your sciences, light bounces from objects in the so-called real world and enters your eyes, creating electrochemical nerve impulses that propagate to the brain. Ultimately, the brain interprets these signals, creating a representation of the given information, then projects an image of what you believe you see back out into the _world_. Thus, even by your own sciences, _everything _you see is an image. Your entire world is merely a projection of your mind."

"Huh?" Ranma asks.

"The world you see is an illusion, spun by your mind. What you see, what you hear, what you feel, have no bearing on what is real... supposing _real_ even exists."

Ranma frowns. "If it's just an illusion created by _my _mind, then why can't I make _you_ go away?"

"Can you make a nightmare go away?" the man asks contemptuously. "Can you control every detail of your dreams? You could be dreaming this entire world."

"This world isn't my dream! I am not the Red King!"

"Blind denial is unbecoming of you, Andhera," the man states. Crunch! He takes another bite from the crisp golden apple, and chews silently, as though waiting for a response. When none comes he swallows and asks, "Do you have a reason for that statement, or is it just an irrational declaration?"

Ranma scowls. "There are lots of reasons," she says.

Crunch. Chew. Chew. Chew.

"Well, I'm waiting."

"There's no possible way mymind is big enough to handle every little detail in the world," Ranma says. "I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning... and I made _that_ myself."

"Who says you are detailing the entire world, Andhera? In a story, do things happen if the author doesn't write about them? In a dream, do things exist if you aren't experiencing them? Just as an author can write a story without describing every little event, you can dream a world without conceiving every little detail."

"Well, I never would have thought of the silly argument you're making right now," Ranma says, frowning with a rare expression of thoughtfulness. "And _that's_ right in front of me. Further, since you're bringing up authors, what about books? Where does the information come from if I don't know it?"

"Your error, Andhera, lies in your assumption that your mind is somehow separate from the world you see when, in fact, the opposite is true. All that you see, hear, touch, taste is part of your mind. What you see of this apple, for example, is part of you." Crunch! The man takes a hearty bite from the fleshy fruit.

"That's only true if there is no real world!" Ranma argues. "If there's a real world, then things exist outside of my mind."

"Since you seem so fixated on the idea, perhaps you can explain what a real world is?"

"It's the real world, of course!" Ranma answers.

The stranger stares at her, calmly.

"It's not fake," Ranma clarifies, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose that would be true, though meaninglessly circular," the man states. "Perhaps, by _real world_, you mean a world that is not merely a construct of your own mind."

"Yeah. That," Ranma agrees enthusiastically.

"Then you are correct. If there is a real world, then, by definition, things must exist outside of your mind. You are, however, once again being circular and meaningless."

Ranma's gaze drops back to the ground.

"There is no reason to believe that there is a real world. Even if there is one, there is no reason to believe it is in any way associated with your perceptions. You can't see it. You can't taste it. You can't, in any way, prove it exists. Your perceptions are ultimately internal to your mind," the man adds in his baritone resonance. "Even supposing your hypothetical _real world_ could affect your mind, it remains impossible to determine those effects."

"That doesn't mean it isn't there," Ranma counters.

"True," the man replies. "But how would you ever know?"

Ranma turns to gaze at the stars, brows knit in thought. Eventually, she answers, "Dreams aren't very... consistent. Like a surgical bed might suddenly have a lever that wasn't there a moment before, and by pulling it the bed will throw you like a catapult, then you somehow end up in the catacombs, even if you don't remember flying anywhere. The real world, however, is consistent," Ranma finishes.

"Oh? And by what measuring stick do you determine a real world to be... consistent? Your _memory_?" the stranger asks, leaning against the antenna. "We've already discussed that. Besides, you're once again talking about this real world as if it's a place you've seen. But, as we've already discussed, that's impossible. You cannot prove observations of a real world, therefore you cannot know what qualities a real world might possess. If a real world exists, consistency may or may not be one of its attributes."

"Whatever," Ranma snorts, turning away from the parapet. "The real world is the one in which I live. All that stuff you said is _just_ a theory."

"It's a philosophy, actually," the man corrects.

"Well, I don't like your philosophy. Now, go away."

"No."

"Why not? I've answered your questions."

"Earlier, you told me that you wish to wake up and go home. I'm waiting for you to wake up," the man says. "I do wonder what it looks like."

Ranma glares.

"Maybe going to sleep would work better? Since you're now saying that the real world is the one you live in, perhaps you're simply too awake to be experiencing it," the man offers, licking his fingers after swallowing the last of the tart, yellow apple.

Ranma glares harder.

"Or, perhaps, you could simply will this world as you wish it. It's your illusion, after all."

Ranma stares at him for a moment, and her eyes narrow, but rather than returning the jibe, she turns and leans against the crumbling parapet and gazes into the abyss of roiling fog in the streets below. The gray mist encroaches the overflowing dumpster, floods around the dark lamp posts, flows over a shattered phone booth, and hides everything as far as she can see. As she peers into the abandoned city, its stillness, its morbid silence... presses upon her. She concentrates, willing it all away. The foggy gloom remains.

"Okay, I've tried. It didn't work," Ranma says, breaking the silence.

She receives no response.

Ranma returns her eyes to the rooftop. The stranger is gone. The mirror, however, is still there, and Ranma finds her eyes drawn to it. It reflects the wispy clouds and crescent moon. It reflects stars – a meager dozen that twinkle above the skies of London and a sea of electric stars that shine from below. Ranma turns swiftly. Rivers of headlights flow along distant roads. Shouts resound from a nearby alley. The fog is gone, the stillness filled, and the silence shattered.

Ranma turns, quickly scanning the rooftop once more. She no longer sees the mirror. The air-conditioning unit is shattered, and the broken antenna lies on the ground – right where she kicked it. Everything is as it should be. Happily, she trots across the roof to investigate the shouting from the alley-side of the building.

When she peers over the parapet, her visage darkens, and she leaps.

-oOo-

Audrey shivers. It isn't particularly cold – in fact, the weather is humid and warm – but she shivers anyway. "We shouldn't be doing this," she murmurs.

Audrey walks beside Kathryn. The dim glow of sputtering street lamps and twinkling starlight in the dead sky is insufficient to light their path. The children walk in darkness, trudging from one narrow patch of light to another. The alleys are black pits carved between the buildings, and the buildings themselves are gutted monoliths, looming silently above.

"Of course we should. Ranma needs our support!" Kathryn declares, peering through her shiny, brass field-omnioculars.

Audrey scrutinizes a nearby alley, but her eyes are unable to penetrate the deep, opaque shadows. She steps closer to Kathryn. "Let's go home," she whines. "We can give her our support tomorrow."

"But we're almost there! She jumped from this building to that building a few minutes ago!" Kathryn exclaims, pointing from one tenebrous tower to another further down the road.

"You've been saying we're almost there all night," Audrey accuses. "And what do you mean a few minutes ago? According to that thing, the sun is still setting."

"Heh, heh. Well, the slow-motion feature doesn't come with a clock," Kathryn says. "Besides, we can't go home."

Audrey frowns at her friend. "Don't tell me you don't know the way."

Kathryn gazes at her friend for several seconds before grinning. "Don't worry, Audrey," she advises. "Ranma knows the way!"

Audrey groans.

For a while, the two head further into the darkness, the ominous silence swallowing their conversation. A low, almost inaudible rumbling of a train passing beneath them, and their own footsteps are the only sounds. A black shadow darts across the ground. Audrey stifles a shriek and presses herself against Kathryn. The two walk on.

Kathryn stops and again peers through the enchanted lenses, briefly twiddling brass knobs before dropping them and continuing their quest. The omnioculars sway at her chest, hanging from a thin leather strap, glinting what little light is available.

The two walk on, crossing into and beyond the warm circle cast by yet another electric lamp.

"We're going to be in _so_ much trouble when we get home..." Audrey utters, glancing nervously into the dark alleys. She peers into the hollow windows of an abandoned building and shivers.

Kathryn suddenly raises an arm, barring Audrey's path.

"Don't you _dare_ say I sound like Hermione," Audrey hisses, glaring at her friend.

"Hush," Kathryn whispers, looking spooked. Kathryn scans around, searching the dusty, broken windows, and dark alleys.

Panes of grimy glass lie against the base of a building, looking as though they were ordered to replace those broken windows but the effort to install them has long been abandoned. Refuse, garbage, discarded construction materials, and broken glass spill from a dark alley, displaying months or even years of neglect. An unlit phone booth sits across the street under a shattered lamp.

But, whatever Kathryn is looking for, she doesn't find it. "I thought I heard... I felt... something," Kathryn explains quietly, lowering her arm.

Audrey grabs Kathryn's hand before it escapes. She shudders. Her breath quickens. She feels it too – a growing sensation of dread welling within her gut. The sputtering lights buzz and flicker, barely lighting the trashy pavement. She searches, peering reluctantly into the shrouds of shadow. A flash! A face? No, it is but a pile of garbage, a hideous visage, an illusion of light and child's imagination. But she feels it. She feels creepy... dirty. Someone... something malevolent is watching. She feels its eyes on her neck, sweeping up her spine.

Audrey squeezes Kathryn's hand and whispers, "Let's get out of here."

Crash! Tinkle tinkle tinkle. The sound of shattering glass pierces the silence like a knife.

Audrey jumps, and Kathryn whirls, seeking the source of the sound.

"Aroooooooo!" A howl sounds from a nearby alley. Two more howls soon join it, emerging from shattered windows high in the looming buildings. "Arr arr Aroooooooooo!"

Kathryn wheels about. "Who's there!" she cries.

Crash! A flash of green splashes against the dark pavement.

Kathryn and Audrey flinch, recoiling away, as green glass splinters pepper their legs, drawing thin lines of blood.

A broken bottleneck twirls across the ground before coming to a stop at their feet.

Howling, cackling laughter peels from the shadows of one shattered window, soon joined by a dry chuckle from the alley.

A young man with spiky blue hair steps from the dark alley into the street, his eyes shining crimson in the dim light. "Aroooo," he says casually. He stands there, then takes an exaggerated swig from a green bottle, bottoms up towards the sky. Then, with a single motion, he flings the bottle faster than the girls' eyes can follow.

Whoop. Whoop. The bottle spins and hums rapidly through the air, buzzing between the girls' ears. Crash! Tinkle, tinkle – it shatters violently against a nearby wall.

The blue-haired boy grins widely, revealing a pair of slightly elongated canines.

Kathryn and Audrey step back.

Thump. Thump. The sounds rise from behind the girls. A quick glance reveals two more shadowy boys, each wearing a similar predatory smile.

Audrey clutches Kathryn's hand, tightly. Kathryn winces as her bruised fingers grind into each other, but returns a comforting squeeze in reassurance... though, inside, she has no assurance to offer.

"Imagine – two little girls, alone, in a place like this," the first boy says, chuckling as he slowly approaches them. "And just when I was looking for a snack, too. There must really be a god." He casts his eyes towards the skies. "Thanks."

"I say we _play_ with them, first," a voice hisses into Audrey's ear. Standing with his face next to hers, is a pierced boy. He has long, black hair, a handsome face, and eyes the color of dried blood. His pierced tongue slides a full hand's length from his mouth, gyrates a bit, then licks towards Audrey's cheek, causing her to cringe away. His earrings and nose-ring glitter in the faint light.

"I say we carve them up, after," cackles another, running a knife blade lightly under Kathryn's chin. He is burly, larger than the other two, and his eyes glint orange-brown.

Kathryn jerks away, pulling Audrey with her. "Get away from us!" she yells.

"Or what?" the blue-haired boy jeers. "You'll... scream? Go ahead. Nobody will hear you."

The pierced boy grins, then his hand lashes out and he jerks Audrey towards him.

Audrey screams. Her hand is torn from Kathryn's. She is thrown violently towards the ground, where she tries to stop herself with an out-flung arm. She strikes the pavement on her side. The screaming stops. She doesn't move from where she lands.

The pierced boy steps over Audrey and kneels down, reaching for her skirt.

"Don't touch her!" Kathryn shouts, charging forward. She feels a large hand grasp her right arm from behind... and, almost without thinking, she snatches the hand, lowers her elbow, pushes, pulls, and rotates. Crunch. Thump. The burly man hits the ground. Free of the attempted capture, Kathryn lunges forward, throwing a straight punch into the pierced boy's nose. Her fist grinds his nose-ring into his face, causing him to stumble away from Audrey.

"She broke my effin' wrist!" the burly boy yells, clutching his right hand. His knife has skittered across the pavement.

Kathryn holds her own swelling wrist and bleeding knuckles, hissing between clenched teeth and blinking away tears of pain. But adrenaline soon shoves the pain aside.

The pierced boy stands, wipes his bloody nose, and glowers at her hatefully. "You'll pay for that, bitch." He licks the blood off his hand, still glaring at her.

Kathryn stares back, defiantly. She raises her fists.

"Look out," Audrey wheezes weakly, finally stirring from her position on the ground.

"Huh?" Kathryn asks, glancing at Audrey.

Slam! The blue-haired boy's boot crashes into Kathryn's back. Kathryn flies through the air like a rag doll before smashing through several grimy glass panes and into the wall behind them. She flops to the ground, jagged shards of glass cascading upon her, slicing into her flesh from above and below.

"All carved up now, eh, little girl?" howls the burly boy, sweeping up his knife and standing.

The blue-haired boy gazes at the growing pool of red trickling from under the pile of glass. He sneers. "What a waste."

The pierced boy laughs, flashing his fangs, and is about to speak when a dainty foot lands on his head and shoves it crashing into the pavement. Bloody teeth go flying, clattering across the ground... including his two proud fangs.

The red-haired angel hops lightly off the head, braid bobbing behind her. She casts her gaze across the other two boys, then whirls into a spin. Her leg lances out, catching the knife-wielding boy full in the chest. The larger boy stumbles back, lashing out ineffectually with his knife. The girl catches the knife-hand at its full extension and slams her arm across his elbow. Crack.

Boom!

The blue-haired boy stands with a smoking pistol pointed at his burly knife-wielding friend.

Ranma drops her improvised shield and glares at the blue-haired boy. Her hand flickers, and a blade flashes through the air. Thunk. It embeds itself deep into the blue-haired boy's neck.

The blue-haired boy lifts a hand and touches the knife. He gurgles. He gives Ranma one last wide-eyed look then turns tail and flees.

Ranma walks over to Audrey and offers a hand to help her up.

"Kathryn," Audrey says weakly, trying to stand on her own. She points a shaky hand at her injured friend.

Ranma is there in an instant, her hands darting out at impossible speeds, lifting loose glass fragments from Kathryn's dying body. With the obstructions removed, the injuries become apparent. Lacerations cover her arms and legs. A large cut runs from her forehead to her cheek, across her left eye. Several large, jagged shards of grimy glass cut deeply into her flesh. Ranma isn't sure whether those should be disturbed. Blood is everywhere, soaking her clothes, burbling from a deep cut in Kathryn's thigh, trickling across the ground, on Ranma's hands... coating everything in its sticky, pungent redness.

Ranma's heart leaps and falls. Kathryn is breathing. Kathryn is alive. But her blood, her life, is flowing from her wounds... especially her leg... Ranma needs to do something _now _to save her, or Kathryn will die.

Ranma wracks her mind. What can she do? What can she do! Ideas and lessons float through her mind – snatches of anatomy class and the basics of first aid lessons she doesn't remember having. Direct pressure? Ranma would need more limbs than an octopus. Tourniquets? Kathryn could lose her limbs. A pressure point? Pressure points! Vaguely recalling her research project in anatomy of two years ago, and suppressing her embarrassment, Ranma reaches up Kathryn's skirt and presses a finger to the inside of her thigh. She squeezes hard – hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to squeeze Kathryn's femoral artery against her femur and cut blood flow to the damaged limb. It works. The bleeding from the many wounds on Kathryn's left leg slows to a dribble. Gaining a little confidence, and continuing to hold the femoral pressure point, Ranma's free hand begins wandering across Kathryn's body, pressing various other points – head, shoulder, heart, and neck... to no immediate effect.

A movement catches Ranma's eye – the burly knife-boy has stood up from where he previously fell to a gunshot wound. How is he alive? The boy groans and stands, and with an audible crunch he shifts his broken arm back into place, then lets it drop to hang limply at his side. The boy cackles aloud, an insane, howling laughter, then looks around with his orange-red eyes... and when those eyes meet Ranma's, Ranma _glares_ at him. The boy positively scrambles away, muttering something about blue-haired berks mocking God, and not even noticing that he almost bowls over Audrey. When he's gone, Ranma just returns to her ministrations.

"We were looking for you," Audrey starts to explain, having managed to limp over to Ranma. "Kathryn wanted to... Kathryn was trying to help," she adds, attempting to choke down her tears.

"Tell me this is a dream," Ranma says softly, eyes fixed on Kathryn. "Tell me... Tell me this is a nightmare."

"I- I can't," Audrey sobs. She squats down, carefully avoiding the piles of glass, and tentatively, hesitantly, reaches out to touch Kathryn, as though the attempt might break her... though which of the two girls it might break remains uncertain. Audrey's hand hovers over her friend without quite touching. Tears stream down her face.

For a while, neither of the girls speak. Ranma finally decides to take action on a glass shard, carefully removing it from Kathryn's left arm. Ranma then quickly tears a strip from Kathryn's skirt and uses it to bandage the wound.

"She's still alive," Ranma says.

Audrey's head swivels to face Ranma. Her eyes widen in blossoming hope.

"She's still alive – she's still breathing," Ranma continues, as though attempting to convince herself. "I can save her. We can save her. But this bleeding...- She's lost so much blood... too much blood. We need to get her to a hospital right away."

Audrey stands, wobbles a bit, and wipes her snot and tears on her sleeve. She clenches her fist against the throbbing pain in her skinned hand and damaged wrist. Somewhat shakily, she declares, "I'll go call an ambulance."

"No!" Ranma barks, barely giving Audrey a glance. Her attention is focused on Kathryn, over whom her hand still darts, pressing a point here, two points there, stretching as far as the redhead's tiny hand can manage.

Audrey stares at Ranma with growing frustration. "But there's a phone booth just across the street!" she protests.

Ranma glances across the street and sees the unlit phone booth sitting under a shattered lamp. Then she turns her frustrated visage towards Audrey. She nods once. "Hurry," she says. "But don't leave my sight. I...-" Ranma trails off and turns to face her charge. "Just hurry," she insists.

Audrey runs. Pain... Pain lances up her legs with each awkward step, but she manages a half-loping half-limping gait on her sprained ankle and bruised bones. Leap. Oww. Limp. Oww. Her ankle twists under her and she stumbles to the ground. Her hands and knees are throbbing fire, skinned upon the grimy asphalt. Hissing through her teeth, she stoically stands and continues to run.

Audrey reaches the phone booth, and what she sees makes her heart fall. The wires are cut. The glass is shattered. The receiver is nowhere to be seen.

Searching along the road, she sees a lit phone booth just a few blocks down the street. She is tempted to run to it, despite her condition, but she remembers Ranma's request... _don't leave my sight_. Audrey looks to where Ranma is struggling valiantly to keep Kathryn alive, currently with one hand on her abdomen and the other up her skirt. Feeling sick with frustration and worry and her own very real pain, Audrey half-lopes and half-limps back.

Ranma glances at her. "Is an ambulance on its way?" she asks, sounding desperate.

Audrey is about to answer, but what she notices behind Ranma has her panicking. "Ranma!" she cries.

The pierced boy stirs, then rises groggily to his feet and touches his gums where his fangs used to be. He then examines his tongue... which is now missing its tip. He fixes Ranma and Audrey with a menacing crimson-eyed scowl. "You'll pay for this!" he growls with a sibilant hiss. "And your blood will heal me." Still shaking off the last vestiges of his prior injuries, he trudges towards the girls.

"Crap," Ranma says in summary of the situation. She glances briefly at her occupied hands, then at Audrey, then at the pierced boy... then she blurs into action.

A dozen large, jagged shards of grimy glass fly like shuriken towards the approaching man. He panics a moment, then crosses his arms to guard his face and neck.

Audrey, with an awkward jerk, finds herself falling towards Kathryn. Her right hand lands against Kathryn's abdomen atop the wound that Ranma was pressing a moment ago; Ranma holds it there with a certain pressure. A leg captures Audrey's fall and lowers her body gently to the ground – which is suddenly vacant of the dozen large jagged shards of grimy glass she expected to fall upon. Ranma finally grabs her other hand, forcibly extends her fingers, then jabs them into Kathryn's thigh with almost enough force to make them hurt.

"Hold that pressure, especially on the thigh, or there's no question – Kathryn _will_ die," Ranma warns before parting.

Audrey holds the pressure for all she is worth. Examining Kathryn's body, she notices that most of the bleeding from the limbs has already slowed to a crawl. All accessible pieces of glass are already removed, and the worst of the gashes already wrapped in bloody bandages formed from Kathryn's skirt. But whether the lack of bleeding is a good thing or a really _bad_ thing is up to question – all bleeding stops... eventually. Further, she can't even tell whether her best friend is still breathing, despite having a hand on her abdomen – Kathryn might already be dead. No! Audrey banishes the thought. She isn't dead yet. She can't be dead yet. Ranma knows what she is doing, and she said that Kathryn is still alive. Ranma will save her. Just keep pressing this point on Kathryn's thigh, and keep holding this cloth on her abdomen, and she will live. She will live.

While Audrey becomes absorbed in handling Kathryn, Ranma turns to face the attacker.

Ranma lets her gaze drop to observe the results of her previous attack. "I like your new piercings," she says darkly. Her eyes rise to meet those of the pierced boy. They are dangerous.

The pierced boy doesn't notice. Instead, he looks down to see his newest body decorations – grimy, grotesque, unprofessionally done – glass shards embedded deep into his belly. The boy gives the small girl a murderous stare. "Die, bitch!" he growls, then he leaps forward, fist drawn back to perform a massive haymaker.

Ranma steps forward to meet him and her leg rises in a blurring arc from his groin to his neck, accompanied by the dull sound of glass shattering inside flesh. Then she twists – a mere flicker of motion – and her opposite leg lashes out.

Boom! The pierced boy strikes the wall with a resounding thump. Fist-sized chunks of concrete fall from the impact crater as the boy sloughs to the ground. But he catches himself on his feet. Cough! Cough! Blood speckles the ground below him. The boy's hand wraps itself around the nearest object, and he rises. "Now it's my turn," he growls, blood dribbling from one corner of his mouth. He hefts the pipe and rushes in.

Ranma glances back towards Kathryn. Audrey holds the leg tightly, paying no attention to the melee behind her. Whoosh! Ranma casually leans to the side, allowing the pipe to whiz by her. Whoosh! She ducks under another strike. "Pathetic," she utters. Her leg explodes, sweeping across the pierced boy's knee. Crack! He crashes, spinning towards the ground, then – wham! – Ranma brings her other leg slicing upwards into his jaw. It strikes with a sickening pop and sends him spinning in the opposite direction. Clang, clang – the boy's pipe bounces off the ground, released from limp fingers. Ranma spins swiftly, snatching the pipe as she fires a kick into his sternum, which buckles beneath her foot.

The boy rockets away and impacts the wall with another thunderous bang. Thwang! The pipe penetrates his belly and pins him to the concrete surface several meters above the alley.

"And stay there!" Ranma shouts in frustration.

For a moment, the boy complies... not moving at all. Then he convulses and coughs, shakes the cobwebs from his head, snaps his jaw into place with an audible click, and spits a mouthful of blood to the ground. He casts another murderous stare. With a shove, he slides off the pole and drops several meters to the alley below, where he staggers on his injured leg. Blood dribbles from the visible hole in his belly; shredded guts and broken glass threaten to spill out. "I won't go down so easily," he chokes.

"Are you stupid?" Ranma snaps. "You can't even hit me!"

"I will have my revenge!" the pierced boy shouts, hefting an I-beam above his head. He holds the beam parallel to the ground, reaching almost from one side of the narrow alley to the other. With a heave, he throws it, but his injured leg twists under the weight.

The massive beam bounces off an alley wall, leaving a nasty divot in the hard concrete. It twirls through the air, ricochets off the ground, changes course, and flies past Ranma towards Kathryn and Audrey.

Panicking, Ranma chases the support beam. She leaps ahead of it; her feet land on either side of Kathryn's head, and with a reverberating slap she sends the steel girder twirling safely overhead. It crashes into a building opposite the street, breaking a large window, sending glass clattering to the ground.

Audrey gasps, startled, but renews her concentration. "Hurry, Ranma," she utters softly.

Ranma nods resolutely, then gives the pierced boy her own murderous glare. "I don't have time for playing around," she says darkly.

"You don't even know how to hurt me," the pierced boy sneers, darkness beginning to flicker around him. "But I – oof!"

Snap! Crackle! Pop! Slam! Wham! Crunch! Stomp. Stomp. Ranma grinds her heel into the pierced boy's neck, pulverizing the bones. Then she rears back her leg...

Clang! The pierced boy strikes the dumpster like a sack of flour. He is limp, crushed, with limbs twisted to impossible angles and spears of bone extruding from his mass... more resembling a puddle than a person.

"You were saying?" Ranma inquires of the broken bag of flesh. She turns on her bloody heel and heads back to her friends.

Ranma squats down beside Audrey and gives a cursory examination of Kathryn. Satisfied, Ranma asks, "How much longer before the ambulance arrives?"

Audrey is silent and a few tears grow in her eyes. "I wasn't... wasn't able to call," she sobs. "Kathryn... Kathryn will... because of me, because I couldn't... The phone... You said not to!" Her hands quiver but remain in place. "The phone was broken and I couldn't call. I couldn't call."

Ranma frowns and examines Kathryn's leg a moment longer. Schooling her voice, she says, "It's okay. You did the right thing. We'll just find a different phone. We'll call... and Kathryn...-"

A metal groan tears through the night, low and shrill, instantly gaining Ranma's attention.

Shrouded in shadows, the broken boy's eyes glow dull red. Dozens of objects float above him – broken wood, lengths of rebar, shards of glass, a rusty can of dried paint, and more. Even the dumpster floats a meter above the ground, straining under its load.

The boy manages to twitch his head a little, allowing blood to flow from his mouth to the ground. "I am invincible!" he rasps. "Behold the true power of a vampire!" His eyes flash brighter, then, all at once, the objects begin flying towards the girls, with the dumpster meandering behind, hiding the boy from view.

Ranma leaps to her feet and begins slapping the objects aside, quickly deflecting shards of glass and chunks of concrete. She grabs a plank of wood to bat even more projectiles away. However, even those she knocks to the ground rise again and approach the girls. She stares with consternation at the approaching dumpster, and continues her efforts.

"Ack," Audrey gasps in pain and rocks forward, struck in the shoulder by the rusty paint can. Blood wells between the fingers of her right hand as she attempts to place it back on Kathryn's belly. "Ranma!" she wails.

"You're a vampire, huh?" Ranma shouts, clearing the immediate debris with a few quick sweeps. With a quick snap, she breaks the plank into halves, and a quick chop-chop sharpens the ends. "Then I know your weakness!" she yells. She drops to the ground and hurls the spikes under the floating dumpster.

The pierced boy's glowing eyes widen as he sees the redhead briefly peek below the dumpster and launch something in his direction – a spike of wood. His eyes narrow, he concentrates, he succeeds! The spike halts several meters from him. Thwump! "Huh?" he rasps. His neck twitches and his eyes trail down. Between jutting bones, a second shaft of wood penetrates his chest. "Oh, crap..." he utters.

Poof! He's dust.

The projectiles fall, clattering to the pavement, and Ranma tosses aside the length of rebar that had replaced her wooden plank. The dumpster lands with a thunderous thump and a shrill groan; it grinds to a halt just meters from the girls. It begins tipping over, but Ranma immediately rushes in and pushes it upright. One nasty, rotting sack of... something... falls from the noxious mound and splats against the ground. Putrid fluid and chunks of rancid meat ooze from a break in the bag.

Ranma carefully steps over it, resisting a sudden urge to vomit. She stops near Kathryn and Audrey.

"Is he dead?" Audrey asks, a hard tone in her voice.

"Yes," Ranma answers after a long pause. Her own voice is detached, clinical. "We need to move Kathryn now. You've done a good job." Ranma rips one of her pant-legs free, and quickly wraps it around Kathryn's thigh, tying a tight tourniquet with her strong arms. "You can let go of the leg now," Ranma states dully. "But you'll need to keep the pressure on her abdomen as we walk."

Audrey nods with determination and places both hands against Kathryn's abdomen as Ranma carefully lifts the girl.

The two of them walk into the night.

-oOo-

Nine-nine-nine, Ranma pounds into the phone. She holds the receiver to her ear for a long moment, then clearly states, "Ambulance." Another long pause... then Ranma squints under the white, electric light at the signs denoting the nearest street corner. "Yeah, that's where we are. ... Two injured girls, but only one in need of urgent attention. ... I'm eleven. ... My name is Ranma. ... _No, my mother isn't here._ ... Yes, she's breathing. Yes, she's bleeding, but I've slowed it down. No, she isn't conscious." Ranma turns to look at Kathryn, whom Audrey is attending closely by still applying pressure to the abdomen. "Umm... -

"- massive blood loss due to fourteen lacerations. Most of those are currently controlled by bandaging, but there is one cut into her left eye and an abdominal wound that is still bleeding, though controlled by direct pressure. Her left leg suffered a cut to its femoral artery, and I was forced to apply a tourniquet. She might still have some glass in her body. Her back is broken between her second and third lumbar vertebrae, and exacerbated – we had to move her from the scene. She also suffers minor fractures in her left hand and arm, and a concussion of unknown proportions.

"... Yes, I'm really eleven. Now hurry up and get an ambulance over here!" Click. Ranma places the phone back onto its hook.


	7. Gutted

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

(alpha)

**Started: ** August 31, 2005

**Last Update:** December 6th, 2005

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

_**Summary in Brief:**_

_In _**Chapter Four**_, Ranma was tested for magic by Ethan Fulke and Walter Waldgrave from the Ministry. Ranma proved to be a witch by accidentally enchanting a wall in the Granger household. On the next day, Ranma left to Diagon Alley. There, Ranma purchased supplies and gifts, including omnioculars for Kathryn. Ranma met Harry, whom she convinced to help purchase a gift for Hermione. Ranma also met three nasty girls at Madam Malkins who threatened to keep Ranma out of school if she so much as touched them, an angry Lavender Brown who used a massive, magical height advantage to assault Ranma with little success, and a man in purple pajamas who could make a good living as a used car salesman. _

_In _**Chapter Five**_Ranma regaled Kathryn and Audrey with stories and gifts from Diagon Alley. Kathryn quickly discovered the tracking and slow-motion features of her new omnioculars, and targeted them at Ranma. Shortly after gift distribution, Arnold Peasegood and Abigail Clearwater from the Ministry of Magic arrived to fix the wall magically enchanted the previous evening. However, they also had a second goal: obliviate the Muggle girls. After all, Muggles aren't supposed to know about magic or its connection to the Granger girls. It's the law! Hermione acted in what she believed to be everyone's best interest by preventing Ranma from interfering with the Ministry officials and their duties._

_Hermione's controversial act sparked a heated argument between the sisters. Ultimately, Ranma stomped out of the house, leaving to a seedier sector of London to think and vent... violently. Ranma's choice of venting activity, fighting shadows, ended with a blow to her head. Ranma then awakened to a dream-like state wherein a stranger in white discussed epistemology and solipsism while consuming a golden apple. _

_While Ranma was away, Kathryn decided to find Ranma and provide some emotional support... not even Kathryn was clear on her exact purpose or method; she is rather impulsive. While Kathryn would normally never have any hope of finding Ranma, this time Kathryn utilized those omnioculars which, conveniently, were still tracking Ranma in slow-motion. So the girls followed Ranma... and followed... and followed. Unfortunately, they could only barely keep up with the slow-motion vision of their more agile friend. The sun eventually set on their travels, and they found themselves walking alone in the dark through the seedier parts of London, jumping at rats and shadows. As they finally approached Ranma's location, they were assaulted by three teenage boys._

_Ranma, upon finally escaping that dream-like state, heard commotion from a nearby alley. It was already too late to save Kathryn from critical injury – she was buried under a pile of broken glass. Upon investigating, Ranma only found Audrey under assault. Ranma immediately leaped to the surface, landing on one boy's head and smashing his jaw into the asphalt. Shortly thereafter, the other two boys fled with mortal wounds... but it turns out that the enemy wasn't mortal. The third boy gave Ranma considerable trouble before revealing himself to be a vampire... then seconds later he was dust._

_During the conflict, with Audrey's aid, Ranma managed stabilize Kathryn's life and reduce the bleeding. The two girls called an ambulance. All they can do now is wait... and hope._

_**Author Notes:** _

_Last chapter was rather cerebral and symbolic with the two major thinking scenes plus a verbal debate. Based on reviews, reader reaction to this was rather poor; apparently, our audience doesn't enjoy that genre quite so much as we authors do. (- sigh -) However, you may take heart that we won't be doing it again. In the future, we shall endeavor that no two, long, primarily mind-walk-style sections fall in a row and ensure that such sections don't encompass more than one-third of any chapter. This should reduce their chunkiness to help you swallow them more smoothly. _

_As stated before, this is the last pre-Hogwarts chapter._

**Chapter Six: Gutted**

You shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh.

– Pat Benatar, _Hell is for Children_ (1953- )

August 1993

-oOo-

Audrey leans against a wall in the sterile hallway and struggles with her sling, attempting to adjust its strap to a position that chafes less with each movement. Her efforts knock her crutch free, and it begins to fall away. Lunging desperately, she grabs for it... but it escapes, clattering off the white, linoleum floor. Trying to regain her balance, she twice hops forward on her right foot, but she continues to fall. Without thought, she sets her left leg down; the impact is jarring. She gasps. With stability returned, she gingerly shifts her weight off her throbbing left ankle and reaches down to pick her crutch off the floor.

Whoosh! Surgical scrubs and white shoes whisk across Audrey's vision – an attractive, black woman swiftly donning a pair of latex gloves. Her surgeon's mask sways against her neck, and her gusting wake carries the sterile scent of sanitizing soap. The doors at the end of the hall slam open to her passing, and she vanishes behind them. Above those doors hangs a sign, red and white under fluorescent lights, declaring the area beyond to be A&E – Accident and Emergency.

Audrey rises and begins a shuffling gait onwards, carefully supporting herself with her crutch. She only takes a few steps down the hall before it widens into a waiting area. On a bench against the nearest wall, Ranma sits, fidgeting nervously, eyes glued to the A&E doors. Across the room sits a college-age boy squeezing an injured finger within a bloody, white cloth. Audrey sets her crutch against a low table, and takes a seat next to Ranma.

"Is she going to be okay," she asks with a hush, finally drawing Ranma's attention.

"Of course not!" Ranma snaps.

Audrey quails away. She slowly directs her eyes to the A&E doors, saying nothing more.

After a moment, Ranma breaks the silence. "Sorry," she says. "It's just that... dammit, they wouldn't listen to me! I told them...-" Ranma trails off.

"Told them what?" Audrey asks, turning towards her friend.

Ranma releases an aggravated sigh. "I told them not to use those electric paddles. She was still breathing! Her heart was still beating! She was just slowed down, in stasis." Ranma stands and starts pacing. "They could have killed her. When they used them, she started bleeding again – all of her wounds, all at once. I was...- For a moment, I was sure she would die. They don't know how pressure points interact with those things. _I_ don't know how pressure points interact with those things."

"Defibrillators," Audrey corrects.

"Yeah, those things," Ranma repeats, flopping back upon the bench.

For a while, the air is dead. The girls sit silently, watching the wide double doors. Several times, those doors open and doctors pass between them. After ten minutes, the college boy is called away. After twenty, Ranma fidgets uselessly in her seat, and, eventually, time shreds even Audrey's patience.

"What exactly did you do for Kathryn?" she inquires.

Ranma stares down at her hands as she answers, "Beyond bandaging and direct pressure, I used those pressure points... the ones I learned from that free research project in anatomy. They were supposed to slow her vitals, slow blood flow to her limbs, and bring her to a feign-death slumber. I wasn't... I'm not even sure if they worked right. I've never used them before, and I only got a D on the project."

"I'd say they worked," Audrey replies, placing her free hand atop one of Ranma's own. "I could hardly tell she was breathing. And you saved her, Ranma. She... she only made it to the hospital because of you."

Ranma continues to stare downwards, this time at the hand Audrey offers. Stiff bandages wrap Audrey's splinted wrist – cold, dry, hard... offering small comfort.

Audrey forces a smile and continues, "Besides, you received a low grade only because you limited yourself to just one source: journals from Ono Tofu in Japan. It didn't help that the teacher couldn't read the source, or that the subject isn't accepted in western medicine, or that you found those journals on the Internet."

"Perhaps," Ranma replies sullenly.

"Hello, ladies," a new, tired voice calls. "Have you heard anything about Kathryn?"

Audrey glances up to see Officer Jon Hurst standing in the waiting area.

"No," Ranma answers curtly.

The police constable frowns grimly. "I've contacted your homes," he states after a moment. "Gareth and Elinore are out searching, but Hermione tells me they've been calling back every half hour or so. The others will be here ASAP. Meanwhile, would you two like something to drink? Juice, perhaps?"

"Yeah, I'll take a juice," says Ranma.

"I'd like some hot tea, please," Audrey requests politely. "If that's possible."

"That won't be a problem," Jon answers. Then he turns and walks away, swift and silent as a whisper over a lake.

Audrey and Ranma fall back into quiescent stillness returning their eyes to the A&E doors.

One minute passes, then another.

A doctor dashes down the hallway. A bleeding patient – a boy their own age – flies in on a wheeled gurney escorted by the doctor and two emergency medical technicians who loudly discuss the boy's condition in the appropriate jargon while applying an oxygen mask to his face. The trio and the boy vanish between the double doors below the red and white sign. Seconds later, a family files into the waiting room: a man, a woman, and a young girl no older than five or six. They stand across the room, holding the girl close. The child stares at Audrey, eyes wide with curiosity. Soon, a doctor arrives, the same one who intercepted the EMTs, and approaches the family. The parents' eyes shine with hope, but a few solemn, silent words turn it to grief. A few tears trail down the father's face. The mother shudders and starts crying into her hands. The child tugs at her mother's shirt. "Mommy? Mommy, what's wrong? Daddy?" she asks, her shrill voice crossing the room. The father lifts the child into his arms, wrapping her in a tight hug, then speaks softly into her ear. The girl's face contorts and she begins to wail a shrieking, piercing cry of anguish. The father glances over at Ranma and Audrey, then carries his daughter from the room. The doctor walks slowly away, his message delivered.

Audrey sniffles. Tears drip from her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, and pool at her chin. Her left arm rises to scuff a few away, lightly wetting the dry bandages, but when she lowers it the tears continue to flow.

"What's wrong?" Ranma asks, leaning forward into Audrey's blurring line of vision.

"It's just...- hic! It's just...- hic!" Audrey starts. She wipes at her nose and sniffles roughly. "That could have been Kathryn!" she wails. She sobs and buries her eyes in the crook of her arm.

Ranma uncertainly, tentatively, places a hand upon Audrey's shoulder. After several seconds, she slides it across, pulling Audrey into a loose, one-armed hug.

Audrey lunges forward, wrapping her good arm around Ranma's waist. She cries into Ranma's lap.

Ranma looks down stiffly then hesitantly pats Audrey's back. "It will be alright."

Audrey wails loudly and pulls closer, and Ranma cringes in panic.

"It- It- It's all my fault," Audrey cries. "I should have stopped her."

Ranma begins to respond, then hesitates, and finally closes her mouth without answering. Instead, she gently massages Audrey's shoulders.

"When...- Hermione told us." Audrey sniffles and peers upwards with puffy red eyes. "After you left, Hermione told us. She told us about witches and magic. Kathryn... hic!-... after that fight, she wanted to find you...- hic!- ...tell you we're alright. I should have stopped her. I could have stopped her. It's...- it's all my fault."

"It isn't your fault."

"It is my fault. It was late. If I refused to follow, she wouldn't have left."

"Kathryn does what Kathryn does," Ranma says. "You couldn't have stopped her. Besides, if anything, it's my fault. I shouldn't have left... not when you were sleeping over, not after what happened, not when you were worried about me."

"It's not your fault!" Audrey exclaims, rising in her seat to meet Ranma's eyes. She rubs her runny, itchy little nose across the bandages on her forearm.

Ranma smirks. "You could have not followed. I could have not left in the first place. If it isn't my fault, then how can it be yours?"

Audrey gazes at Ranma for several long seconds, as though about to speak, but in the end she simply lies against Ranma. She places her head upon Ranma's shoulder and breathes softly across Ranma's neck. Her occasional sniffles become less frequent.

"I'm glad you killed him," Audrey utters quietly, her whispered words caressing Ranma's ear.

"Hmm? Killed who?" Ranma asks.

Audrey shifts a bit to gaze into Ranma's blue eyes. "The vampire, of course. Who else?"

"Well, _technically_, the vampire was already dead."

Audrey glowers petulantly, then settles against Ranma once again. "Well, I'm glad you made him dead_er_. He deserved it for hurting Kathryn. _They all do._"

Ranma frowns a little, then relaxes. "How did you find me, anyway?" she asks.

"Well, Kathryn found those omnioculars were still tracking you around corners in slow motion. After that, it was a simple matter of taking a bus and a train... and _a lot_ of walking."

Ranma nods thoughtfully. "So, where are the omnioculars, anyway?"

Audrey sits up suddenly, withdrawing from Ranma's arms. "You don't have them?" she demands.

Ranma shakes her head.

Audrey groans, sinking into her seat. "Hermione's going to kill us. They must have been left where Kathryn and I were attacked."

"So, you were attacked?" Jon asks suddenly, stepping around a corner and handing the girls their drinks. He sets a thermos on the table. "I was going to ask about that. Assault and battery should be reported to the police... especially when it's this severe."

Audrey gazes into her mug and takes a sip of her lukewarm tea. She frowns at the cup then glances back at Jon.

"I'll get the process started. You'll have interviews tomorrow," the man continues.

Ranma grimaces, then gulps down her bottle of juice and thumps it on the table. "I'd rather not," she grumbles.

"I must insist! The law -" Jon starts.

"- is remarkably ineffective at preventing crime," Ranma finishes acerbically, her gaze drifting to the A&E doors.

Jon looks hurt, but quickly hides it. "There are places the law cannot reach – places where a smart copper wears his armor and carries a gun, Ranma. The ambulance found you in one of those places," he intones.

Ranma sighs then turns to face the middle-aged officer. "When I'm gone, at school, will you watch out for Kathryn and Audrey?"

Something dark flickers across Jon's irides. "If that is your wish," he states ceremoniously.

"Thanks," Ranma answers. "Then I suppose I'll go to that interview."

Jon takes a moment to refill Audrey's cup from the thermos. Audrey takes a sip, then blows gently across the rim before sipping more.

Hustle and bustle, footsteps and indistinct voices fill the hall as another family approaches. "I'd like to see Kathryn, now. Is she-" "Don't ignore me! If our daughter has any serious injuries -" "I'm sorry, sir, but I -" "- with that Keynes girl filling Audrey's head with such silly ideas, I swear -" "- the surgery is still ongoing, but we do believe -"

The group bursts into the room, sandy-haired Mr. Keynes in the lead accompanied by a very harried looking nurse, both being heckled by Mr. and Mrs. Knight.

"- you'll be seeing us in court, you and that Granger family," Mr. Knight finishes, glaring at Mr. Keynes's back.

Audrey turns away in shame.

"Don't look away from me, young lady!" Mrs. Knight snaps at her daughter. She takes a moment to gaze at Ranma, and her eyes narrow dangerously. Then her attention whips back to Audrey. "What were you thinking, wandering around at night? You could have ended up like that Keynes girl!"

"Ah, Audrey! You are doing alright, yes? No serious injuries?" Mr. Knight asks, rushing up to investigate his daughter. "You've been crying."

"I'm fine," Audrey answers churlishly, jerking her hand from her father's. She grabs her crutch and stands awkwardly.

"Don't talk to your father like that," Mrs. Knight chides. "Do you have everything? Because we're leaving immediately. We do have an appointment in the morning, you know – an important client."

Audrey offers Ranma a small smile, but it wilts away with a glance at the A&E doors. "Goodnight, Ranma," she says softly. "I'll see you tomorrow." Then she turns on her crutch and moves unsteadily towards the corridor, passing near Mr. Keynes.

Mr. Keynes addresses her quietly, "If you need someone to pick you up in the morning-"

Mr. Knight growls fiercely, "If you think I'm going to put my daughter in _your _hands-"

Jon interrupts, "She must be brought to the station in the morning for statements. I'm willing to pick her up at, oh, seven... if that won't interfere with your appointment."

Mr. Knight pauses, taken aback, then nods. "As you say, officer. Do you need the address?"

"I have it," Jon answers curtly, looking vaguely annoyed.

Mr. Knight doesn't seem to notice; he just nods and prods his daughter onward, accompanied by his wife.

"Goodnight, Mr. Keynes. Goodnight, Officer Hurst," Audrey calls to the two remaining adults. Then she disappears around a corner.

-oOo-

Thump. Thump. Two bound and broken boys strike the ground in a groaning heap – one with spiky blue hair and crimson eyes, the other a burly bloke with eyes of a more golden hue.

The blue-haired boy lifts his throbbing jaw off the unforgiving, concrete surface and gazes bleary-eyed at the scene before him. He lies on the floor of a warehouse; the area is surrounded by crates of supplies, piles covered in tarps, and forklifts. A ceiling mounted crane hangs above. Ahead of him stands a man with long, silver hair, a longer gray coat, and considerable poise discernable even though his back is turned to the boy. Beyond him,two men rapidly unload sloshing, malodorous containers from the back of an ugly green truck, and another is removing the tarps from a supposed pile of crates in a corner to reveal a trio of sleek, black vans.

Crunch! A booted heel stomps the boy's jaw painfully back into the floor, abruptly eliminating his view.

"I found these two shits," the owner of the boot announces, grinding his heel further into the blue-haired boy's neck. His voice is deep, harsh, abrasive. "They've been drinking and walking the streets, and they've been in a scrap... even before I got to them." He sneers with disgust, and a quick glance from his coal black eyes pins the burly boy in place. He then turns back to the man of silver and gray. "I couldn't find the pierced fool."

"Thank you, Nathan," replies a smooth, strong voice. The speaker turns; silver hair twirls around his waist, and his gray eyes drop to address the boy beneath Nathan's heel. "So, what did you find so pressing that you felt the need to _excuse_ yourself from the mission?"

"... girl ... redhead ..." the blue-haired boy chokes, clawing at Nathan's heel.

The burly boy giggles insanely, only to receive a swift kick to the chin. He shuts up.

"You were distracted by a girl?" the silver-haired man asks lightly. "I'm afraid that isn't sufficient excuse for your... failures. Nathan, kill them."

"Gladly," Nathan says, lifting a large, shiny, custom chrome and stainless-steel Smith and Wesson Model 629 .44 Magnum revolver from under his coat. He swings out the cylinder and rapidly removes two bullets, leaving the other four in place. With deft fingers, he reloads the gun using fresh bullets from his pocket. Finally, he spins the chamber and grins.

The burly boy scrambles to his feet and scampers towards the warehouse exit. Nathan levels his gun. BANG! The large boy stumbles forward, almost falling. Then, slowly, his hand rises to his forehead. He dabs at it with his fingers, and they come away carrying blood and a grayish ooze. He stares at the substance for a long moment before bringing his hand closer to his mouth. He sniffs the substance, then licks it clean. With shining eyes of golden brown, the boy begins to cackle madly. BANG! He flops to the ground, landing in a growing pool of his own blood.

The massive revolver swings downwards, and the blue-haired boy stares up the barrel with widening eyes. He struggles harder, shoving and shifting, but all his efforts earn is another harsh application of foot to face.

"Only four bullets left," Nathan taunts. "This is the time to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky?" He begins pulling the trigger. The hammer rises... gradually. "Well, do ya, punk?"

"Stop!" a new boy shouts, rushing into the area. He has curly black hair, wide green eyes, and a t-shirt emblazoned with the words Spurs and To Dare is To Do. He appears very much out of place in a warehouse full of goons involved in obviously criminal activities.

Nonetheless, Nathan pauses, gun half-cocked.

"Michael," asks the silver-haired man. "What seems to be the problem?"

"You're killing my friends!" Michael shouts.

"Yes. I can see how that might disappoint you. However, they have failed me in a most grievous manner. Do you wish to make excuses for them? ... again?"

Michael is flustered for a moment, but quickly shakes it off. "Punish them if you must, uncle. Just don't kill them!"

Gray eyes flash silver. "I grow tired of punishing your toys, Michael. They lack discipline, yet you refuse to control them. As such, they are useless to me." He gazes for a moment at the men working behind him, then his attention slides back to Michael. "... worse than useless, really, as they still have the power to reveal our operations."

"They've caused no harm, uncle," Michael counters. "I know your plans didn't depend on them... or me. They never do." He stares at the floor, then raises his eyes in challenge. "Maybe if you gave us something _real_ to do-"

"I like reliable people, Michael," the man interrupts. His hand sweeps across the goons performing menial work in the background. "My plans rely only on those who have proven themselves reliable. You and your friends are not reliable." His neutral gaze darkens with a subtle frown. "You are, at the moment, a disgrace to our exalted line. You squander your gift on degenerates and incompetents who waste immortality in a drug-induced haze and burn all their power on foolish displays. That neither you nor they can be bothered to aid in my business, yet insist on living at my expense, is... unacceptable."

Michael's eyes rake the floor. His arms and shoulders tremble and tense.

"However," the gray-coated man continues, "since you are the last scion of my beloved sister, I'll respect your wishes and leave their discipline to you. You are yet a child, and I shall give you time to grow into a man. But know this – I won't extend such amnesty to your _friends_. If they fail me again, they _will_ be annihilated."

"It won't happen again," Michael mutters.

"Ensure that it doesn't," the silver-haired man replies summarily, turning towards the main warehouse door.

"Well," Nathan growls, lifting his foot off the blue-haired boy's neck. "I guess you _are _lucky."

The blue-haired boy breathes deeply, stress fading from his frame. He adjusts his jaw back into place, and begins to sit up – BANG! – he crashes back to the ground. A new bullet wound sizzles and smokes in his shoulder, and ashen necrosis spreads slowly around it. The boy clutches at the wound, grits his teeth, and hisses, trying desperately to not scream.

Nathan smugly holsters his gun. He turns away and joins the man of silver and gray, ignoring Michael's glare as the boy rushes to help his friend. Instead, he directs his attention to the wide warehouse doors.

SCREEECH! Thump-bump! A black, armored transport screams through the entrance, careening directly over the burly-boy-bump in its path. A cop's face slams against the front windshield as the vehicle groans to an abrupt halt and stares into the warehouse with dead, glazed eyes. The driver-side door swings open, and stiletto-heeled, black leather boots clack against the concrete. Click-clack, click-clack. Long, slender legs in smooth, black stockings bear a buxom brunette into view with a sultry strut. She wears a short, shiny, black leather skirt and a matching jacket over a lustrous, frilly, pearl-white blouse. Around each thigh, an an elastic black strap holsters a GLOCK 18 fully automatic pistol with extended clip. A short-bladed wakizashi in a decorative scabbard is mounted at her hip.

The woman stops in front of the silver-haired man and gazes up at him expectantly with pale white skin, bright red eyes, and full, pouty lips.

"I trust everything went well?" he asks.

"Of course," she answers with a high, ice-cream and bubblegum voice. She flashes a broad smile and a well manicured hand brushes through her straight, raven black hair, allowing the strands to fall smoothly into their pageboy cut. "Do you ever expect anything less from me?"

"Your reliability is exceeded only by your exuberance, Mary," the man replies smoothly. "When I grant you freedom in approaching the task, I do have cause to worry. Perhaps I should rephrase my question: Are any of my men still alive? and should I be expecting SO19 at our door?"

Nathan chuckles, and Mary casts him a dark glare. Before she can answer, however, another armored transport rolls in, accompanied by a crappy looking four-door. Several men step out of the vehicles, and soon join the other goons in rushing about – cutting open the armored trucks with plasma torches and splashing noxious fuels over the four-door before tossing the remainder of the container through the window. The cop's corpse is just left in place as it receives its own splashdown.

"Does that answer your question?" Mary asks, casually brushing a piece of lint off her jacket. "I managed to keep it quiet."

"This time," Nathan snorts.

"Excellent," states the man in gray. "You've done well, Mary. Shall we see what we have?" He asks the latter as several goons begin to pull heavy cases from the trucks and drop them to the concrete.

Mary's eyes light up like Christmas as she quickly opens a case and lifts out a pair of P90 submachine guns. Nathan and the man in gray, however, continue to survey their spoils, finally stopping behind the second of the stolen transports. Inside, stacked bricks of drugs create a wall as wide and tall as the vehicle carrying it.

"Nice, ain't it?" Nathan quips.

"Yes," the silver-haired man replies. "It's good to have it back."

-oOo-

It was a nasty morning, starting off with a light drizzle, a touch of chill, and some stomach searing fast food slammed down with bad coffee. The call directed him to a run-down sector of London occupied only by rats and squatters, as if there's a difference. They didn't tell him more than that. They didn't have to. He deals with only one sort of crime – the violent sort. Probably some fool, just days from death by any measure, got himself stabbed and bought an early ticket out. It wouldn't matter here. Lives don't matter here. Nevertheless, the Criminal Investigation Department wants him to look into it.

As he drives to the site, the rising sun carries promise of a hot, muggy day.

A groan rises from his left, and he glances over to see his partner, Ken Brady, fumbling through the glove box... probably looking for the aspirin, as though the boy didn't consume the last of it weeks ago. Ken deserves it, coming to work with a hangover. He's useless anyway; all he can ever do is flash his badge and perfect teeth and bag another dame.

As he parks near the site, alarm bells ring in his head. A dumpster sits at the front edge of an alley, a structural beam juts from a shattered window across the street, and all his instincts tell him that this will be an interesting case. He steps out of the car and instantly feels nauseous; the whole area stinks of the exposed dumpster, and clouds of tiny flies buzz about over a broken bag oozing noxious fluids. However, he focuses himself. He's handled week-dead bodies. He can handle a little garbage. He's in his element.

He lifts a thirty-five millimeter camera to his eye, and a couple quick flashes capture the scene. A few more focus on the readily available details. Blood is everywhere: a wide, dried pool sits near broken glass panes at one side of the alley; small, bloody shoe-prints are clearly visible, as though a child danced through blood in front of the dumpster; tiny spots of of the thick red fluid dot the asphalt, crossing the street and begging further investigation; and at two places, blood splatter-paints the walls like grotesque abstract art. To him, every drop of blood carries meaning, telling him what happened and in what order... body blows, stomps, small cuts that dribble, a victim fleeing across the street, a victim cut and dying on the asphalt... at least two people did the bleeding. However, blood isn't the only detail that captures his attention. He dons some gloves and lifts a green glass bottleneck, noting that its surface is neither grimy nor worn. It's new, speckled with only a few drizzle-spots from the early morning weather. He drops the object into a plastic bag, resolving to check it for fingerprints.

He pockets the camera and squats near the wide, dried pool of blood. Somebody was lying here with several bleeding wounds; the dancing footprints are likely of the same blood, and thus were made afterwards, while it was still wet. His gaze drifts momentarily to the grimy glass panes, shattered, pieces scattered as though from an impact – a possible cause of injury? He'll need to analyze it for blood. He'll need to analyze everything for blood; it's all over the place. He'll need his kit. He calls to his partner, "Ken, get the kit!"

"Get it yourself, Miles. I'm busy."

Miles glances back to find Ken, the useless bastard, standing a safe distance from the dumpster while holding a roll of yellow tape in one hand and a donut in the other. Little red cones already dot the perimeter. What does the fool think he's doing? There's no traffic. There's nobody around. There's no man or woman in the whole damned sector that would see the tape as an obstacle. "Ken, get the effin' kit!" he growls.

"Okay, okay! Fine! What's your problem?" Ken asks, heading to the car. He returns a minute later. "Here's your bloody kit."

Miles takes samples, scraping dried blood into little plastic tubes and marking the location. He then continues searching the scene, stepping into the alley behind the dumpster. What he finds arrests his attention – ash, blood, burnt leather, and charred wood lie in a scattered pile at the center of the alley.

Squatting near that pile, Miles pinches some ash and rubs it between his fingers; it is dry and fine, but pasty, retaining faint moisture from the earlier drizzle. He sifts through the ashes then lifts out a darkened piece of glass with smooth, rounded edges... one of many buried within.

Miles's considers the artifact. The fire had to be hot, very hot, hot enough to melt glass... but brief – the glass isn't warped; it's flat, and just as thick as the broken panes at the mouth of the alley. How could such a fire be created? and _why_? He glances at the burnt leather, and eyeballs the pile, judging its size. Could it have been a body? That the ashes lie atop the blood indicates they arrived _after_ the bleeding, and the burnt leather aids the hypothesis. But it would take an incredibly stupid criminal, or one with a very impressive flamethrower, to cremate a corpse at the crime scene. Just in case, he sweeps a handful of ash, burnt leather, and glass into a plastic bag.

"At least we know we're the first ones at the scene," Ken declares, interrupting Miles's ruminations.

Miles turns to see his partner dropping something into a plastic bag. Before he can ask, Ken tosses it to him. Inside, Miles sees the severed tip of a tongue of a length just over the width of his thumb. Embedded within it is a golden stud, and crawling at the edges are hundreds of tiny, white larvae. He's rather impressed that Ken picked it up. Whoever lost the tongue was certainly in a fight against a superior foe. One doesn't sever one's owns tongue on accident; it would take a sharp and unexpected blow to the jaw. And, judging from the shape of the cut, that is clearly what happened.

"The gold in that would keep you on Happy Meals for a week," Ken explains. "Think we could get some good dentals?"

Miles grunts noncommittally, neither answering his partner's question nor informing him of the discovery's actual significance. The question is foolish, anyway – even if the maggot-ridden meat could provide good dental evidence, simply searching for suspects with a sibilant hiss would be far more profitable.

Miles turns back to the alley to search for more clues, and a glint grabs his eye. An obscured edge of buried brass glitters under broken glass, catching the rising sun and sending brilliant rays his way. He quickly approaches the pile at the mouth of the alley, and carefully retrieves the item – a pair of brass binoculars with an unusual number of knobs. The left front lens is cracked and the leather strap broken.

"Mrs. Scarlet, with heavy brass binoculars, in the alley," quips Ken.

Miles stares at his partner – a hard, disapproving glare – and professionally resists the urge to tell Ken to get a Clue. He begins lifting the binoculars to his eyes when a low rumble reveals a sleek, black sedan rolling to a stop just outside the red cones.

A squat, balding man wearing a nice, navy blue suit and slacks steps from the vehicle, carrying himself with a quiet dignity. An old scar, wide and deep, runs across the man's larynx and throat... a knife wound, no doubt. The man's eyes dance across the scene... a detective? No. He is unconcerned with the blood, the rotting garbage, the anomalies of the scene, and his eyes linger on windows, entrances, exits, and rooftops. His face reveals nothing, but he walks like a warrior. He's seen it before... scenes like this. He's a veteran. He's a spook.

"Detective Sergeant Long, Detective Constable Brady," the man says with a distinctive, raspy voice, stepping across the police line without a shred of concern. "My name is Hanz Schuart. I'll be handling the investigation from here."

"Under what authority?" Miles challenges.

Rather than answering directly, Hanz hands Miles a folder.

Miles opens it, and the first page confirms his suspicions. MI5. The CID won't be happy. He snaps it shut with a growl. He doesn't need to see more. He glances up, about to speak, and sees Mr. Schuart peering through the brass binoculars with an enormous grin on his face – the first facial expression Miles has seen on the man.

Damn, he hates spooks.

"Ken, get in the car!" Miles orders, stomping his way back to the cheap police vehicle before Mr. Schuart confiscates the rest of the evidence.

Moments later, Ken is seated and the car is on the road. A peek in the rear view mirror shows Mr. Schuart gazing at a length of pole embedded in the wall above the alley, then gleefully returning his eyes to the brass binoculars.

"MI5?" Ken asks, flipping through the folder. "Can they even do that?"

"They can once they slap _Top Secret_ across it. Of course, they can't _prosecute_, but with a few stamps and signatures, they can shut an investigation down."

Ken shrugs, closes the folder, and lies back lazily. "Oh well," he says. "Less work for us."

Miles ignores Ken's crappy attitude and continues driving.

A call to the office on the car's cell and a few discrete questions indicates that Mr. Schuart and his associates haven't yet delivered any orders to CID headquarters. According to his contact, two witnesses of the violent crime – Audrey Knight and Ranma Granger – are currently being questioned at a local police office. There is nothing to do but drive.

Throughout the rough traffic, Ken bumps buttons on the wireless. Bad British morning shows and advertisements dominate the airwaves.

The police station is its usual quagmire of red tape and reports and busy bureaucrats applying pencil to paper. A secretary rises to greet Miles and inquire of his business as he enters. He deals with the nuisance and fills out the requisite paperwork, once glancing up with a pang of envy as a small band of uniformed constables – the true soldiers of the force – is simply nodded through. He had once done such work, but it seems a lifetime ago.

"So you're here to see the children?" the secretary asks, glancing at the paperwork.

He grunts acknowledgment and collects directions. A quick glance shows his partner is hard at work... turning his charm against a female police officer. Miles departs without him, thankful that he doesn't have to convince his partner to leave.

He finds the children sitting in a quiet, comfortable office, being interviewed by a young, accommodating officer who is, no doubt, wearing kid's gloves as thick as the children are small. He scowls. Great. They've had full opportunity to build a collaborative story, probably filling in the gaps with the officer's help. So much for finding inconsistencies.

He takes a moment to examine the girls through the glass window.

The taller of the girls is a brunette, her brown hair held back by a pink banana clip. She has a heart-shaped face, little ears that poke through her hair, and soft, hazel eyes that remain fixed on the officer. A crutch sits at her side, and her opposite arm is in a sling. She's quiet and cautious, speaking only a little, mostly to clarify statements that the redhead doesn't hesitate to confirm. It will be difficult to get anything out of her. If pressed, she'll just clam up... or, worse, cry.

The other is a redhead wearing a solid blue blouse and slate gray slacks that provide stark contrast with her thick, waist-length braid that is held and adorned with a few white ribbons. She answers the officer's questions with a few curt statements and a surly attitude, obviously reluctant to be there and unafraid to express it. Suddenly, she turns and glares at Miles with such intensity that he falls back a step, giving him the impression of a wild panther, bound only by her own will – a disconcerting feeling when invoked by a child. Her gaze calms slightly, and she turns away, but not before Miles memorizes her visage – she is Japanese, with attractive, cerulean eyes that carry a primal, preternatural power.

... a blue-eyed, Asian, redheaded child. Miles's eyes narrow. It's _her_, the murderer of Thomas Price, the assailant of Jack Morgan and Dirk Ratcliffe, and the _vigilante_ savior of William Kuiper. It has to be her. There can't possibly be many blue-eyed, Asian, redheads of her age in the whole world, much less in London. Further, Dirk and William both quoted her as having unusually intense eyes... and her face is a dead match for the old police sketches.

Swiftly, Miles opens the door and barges inside. "I am Detective Sergeant Long, CID," he says, flashing a badge. "I'll be taking over this interview. I'll start with the redhead." He gazes for a moment at the young officer, then suggests, "Why don't you take the other girl to the police artists and see if you can get a picture of the assailant's face."

The young officer looks a bit miffed, but he helps the injured child to her feet. "Assailants' face_s_," he mutters, emphasizing the plural. "There were three of them." The door closes behind him.

Miles turns to gaze at the redhead and finds her eyes once again fixed on him, an annoyed expression on her face.

"I am _not _going to repeat myself," the girl states irritably. She folds her arms across her chest to make the statement final.

"I'm sure we'll find something else to talk about," Miles grumbles, taking a moment to sit across from her. He picks up the officer's notes, written in a fine script he only wishes Ken had mastered, and, to the child's growing irritation, begins reading.

"If you're just going to sit there and read, I'm leaving," she states after a minute.

Miles sets the pad down with a disappointed frown. "You are Ranma Granger, age eleven, correct?"

"Yeah, that's right."

Miles gazes at young Miss Granger for a moment, schooling his features. Her attitude belies a casual arrogance and a contempt for authority. Eleven. Why couldn't she have been _twelve_? But she's eleven, which means she was _nine_ when she killed the fourteen year old boy, Thomas Price... below the age of criminal responsibility. She's untouchable in any real sense, and that only serves to make her arrogance more irritating. However, she's a killer... and after taking one life, it's easy to take another. With eyes like hers, there can be little doubt that Thomas Price is merely one in a chain of such incidents.

Could this case be such an incident? It fits the profile. She saved Audrey Knight and Kathryn Keynes just as thoroughly as she saved William Kuiper; one child is in the hospital and the other is carrying a crutch. Further, at least one of the assailants was bleeding heavily – the notes only account for Kathryn's bleeding. Finally, Ranma seems very uninterested in aiding the police in capturing the assailants. Perhaps she feels that _justice_ has already been served.

"According to the notes, you fought off the three assailants. Tell me, how did you manage this?"

"I've already answered that one," Ranma replies.

"Yes. I see your answer here. Martial arts. What level of martial arts does it take for an eleven year old girl to fight off three adult males without apparent injury?"

Ranma gives the question a little thought. "Are they armed?" she asks.

"You tell me," Miles states.

Ranma turns to gaze at Miles. "If you're talking about last night, it would take _my_ level."

Miles considers her wording. _Last night_, eh? So there may have been other such nights. He reaches into his pocket and grips a pair of coins, noting that the action doesn't escape Miss Granger's eyes. "What is _your _level?" he asks.

Ranma merely smirks.

"Catch!" Miles shouts, whipping his hand out and flinging the two coins semi-randomly in her general direction. He winces a little, seeing one flying for her face and the other headed almost beyond her reach. He had meant to aim a coin at either side of her head.

As the coins approach her, Ranma doesn't even seem to react, her arms still folded across her chest. Then, with a vague flicker, her hand appears before her face, the two coins situated at either side of her middle finger. Her elbow rests casually on her other arm. Slowly, still smirking, she lowers her hand and pockets the coins. "You'll owe me lunch, too, if you keep me here much longer," Ranma says.

Miles stares for a while longer before wracking his brain back into action. That was... amazing... no, terrifying. There is no way that three adult males could stop her. "What school of martial arts do you practice? Who is your teacher? And do you have an official martial arts ranking?"

Ranma ponders over this a bit, as though reminiscing. Finally, she answers, "I'm self taught."

Miles narrows his eyes. She's lying. Nobody gets that good, self taught, especially not at her age. But she might have reason to hide her school and teacher. Anybody who would teach this child must be at least as shady as she is. He is tempted to make a statement regarding her level, but decides to not put her on the defensive before getting more information.

"Before you arrived at the scene, what were you doing in the area?" Miles asks, redirecting the conversation.

"None of your business," Ranma answers flatly.

"We'll see about that," Miles mutters. "From where did you approach the scene, and what did you see?"

Ranma narrows her eyes suspiciously, but answers, "I saw Audrey on the ground, being attacked, and I jumped right in."

"Perhaps I wasn't being clear. From _where_ did you approach the scene? From which direction?"

Ranma considers this carefully. "I heard a commotion in the alley to the west of me, thus I approached from the east."

"Did you encounter any obstacles to entering the alley?"

"No."

Miles smiles a little, taking a few notes. "Tell me, were the assailants armed?" he asks.

"Yes."

Miles resists the urge to grit his teeth. "With what?" he demands.

"Do you want me to include weapons of opportunity?" Ranma asks helpfully.

"No," Miles says. From what he saw, there were plenty of weapons of opportunity.

"Well, the burly boy had a knife, and the boy with the spiky blue hair was carrying a pistol."

Miles's eyes widen; there had been no sign of weapons fire at the scene, but a gun definitely changes the situation. "Did he fire the gun?" he asks.

"Yeah. He struck one of his allies," Ranma says with a dry chuckle. "Didn't kill him, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Miles asks casually.

Ranma doesn't reply.

Miles writes it down, and glances at the other notes. "So, were any of the assailants seriously injured?"

Ranma frowns a little. "Getting shot doesn't count?"

"Where did the shot land?"

"I didn't have a clear view of where the shot landed, but somewhere in his chest."

Miles considers this. A bullet wound to the chest couldn't possibly account for the variety of blood stains on the various walls, ground, and dumpster. "Please describe the injuries sustained by the assailants," he requests.

"Why are you focusing on those monsters?" Ranma demands tempestuously. "Who cares if they were hurt?"

_Monsters... _so they don't count as human in her mind. Miles gazes at the girl for a long moment before finding an answer that won't raise her suspicions. "Knowing the injuries of the assailants may aid in their capture."

"I doubt it," Ranma grumbles.

"And why is that?" Miles asks, interested. Did she already kill them?

"They are far beyond anything you can touch."

"I see," Miles replies darkly. "Still, I'd appreciate it if you describe their injuries."

Ranma answers cautiously. "The burly boy was shot by the blue-haired boy, and the blue-haired boy was stabbed with the burly-boy's knife. Obviously, it wasn't too severe in either case, since they were able to flee the scene."

"And the third boy?" Miles prods. "The one wearing -" he glances at the notes "- black leather and lots of piercings?"

Ranma visibly grimaces. "... umm... He, um... I knocked him unconscious before taking care of Kathryn, and he was no longer there when I left the scene."

Miles gazes at Ranma for a long moment. Her carefully worded answers still don't account for all the blood, and they leave plenty of room for a pile of ash. Thinking of which, he reaches into his jacket and removes a plastic bag filled with ash, burnt _black_ leather, and glass. "Are you sure he was no longer there?" Miles asks, placing the small bag on the table and paying careful attention to Ranma's reactions.

Ranma's eyes widen briefly, then narrow, then finally calm. She glances back up at him, her features more guarded than before. "I've made my statement."

"What do you think the chances are that, if I have this examined in a lab, it will come up as _human _remains?" Miles asks, shaking the bag. "I've been to the scene, Miss Granger, and nothing you've said accounts for all the blood I saw."

Ranma's visage darkens. "Are you accusing me of something?"

Miles pauses for a while before answering calmly. "You do realize that, at your level, your hands qualify as deadly weapons, do you not? Even without a formal ranking, any martial artist can testify to your skill."

"I'm allowed to defend myself and others!" Ranma sputters. "Besides, one of them had a gun!"

"The pierced boy didn't have a gun," Miles counters. "You didn't specify him as having any weapons at all."

"_He_ was wielding weapons of opportunity!" Ranma yells. "This is stupid. I did what was necessary to defend my friends. I'm not on trial here. Since you don't have anything useful to ask, I'm leaving!" Ranma stands and stomps out of the room.

Miles gazes after her for a moment longer. He's satisfied. It was a profitable interview. If the results come back positive from the lab, he'll prosecute... well, after he figures out how the hell she burned the body. With a smile, he collects up his notes and evidence, then stands and turns to the door.

And there, with a presence that barely registers, stands Mr. Schuart.

"Fancy bumping into you, here," the man rasps with a thin smile. "You will, of course, be handing me all your evidence and notes, including your film and all records of the interview."

-oOo-

A small patrol car rolls to a stop in front a massive, multi-story hospital. Surrounding it are grassy grounds, rolling hills, and sparse trees – a private park holding the city at bay. Patients in walkers and wheel chairs chat quietly with nurses and family; some stay in the shade, avoiding the summer sun, but others move about despite the oppressive heat.

The vehicle's driver-side door opens and out steps a uniformed constable. The officer moves to the rear door and opens it, releasing his passengers. First is a brown-haired girl, injured and carrying a crutch and a newspaper, whom he helps to her feet. Shortly thereafter, a redhead slides out the same door.

"So, are you going to tell me about the interview before I leave?" Police Constable Jon Hurst asks of his young charges.

Ranma sends the man a brief, harsh glare, then turns away. "I don't want to talk about it," she grumbles.

"The first officer was really nice," Audrey says. "But I don't know about the detective who took over Ranma's interview."

"Interview?" Ranma laughs bitterly. "Try _interrogation_."

Jon frowns. "What's this?" he asks. "They were supposed to only be taking statements."

"Whatever," Ranma snorts. "I'm never doing _that_ again."

Jon gazes at her for several seconds, looking concerned, but doesn't say anything.

Audrey lifts her arm out of Jon's and supports herself fully on the crutch. "Thanks for dropping us off."

"Anytime," Jon replies with a smile. "Be sure to let me know how Kathryn's doing, alright?" He steps back into the patrol car and rolls away, waving back at the kids.

The two head into the hospital, stopping at the receptionist's desk. They quickly learn Kathryn's room number and that they have been specified on the list of allowed guests. Minutes later, they are peeking through the door.

Kathryn's room is barren, filled only with the soft, regular beep of Kathryn's heart monitor, and the low rushing sound of air gushing through a breather. Large machines and monitors surround her bed. A golden apple sits, abandoned and out of place, atop a flat metal surface, and a pole supports an IV drip. In a chair drawn to Kathryn's bedside sits the tall, sandy-haired Mr. Keynes, like one more fixture in the room.

Mr. Keynes tiredly turns to face the children in the doorway. Sandy stubble and baggy eyes give him a ragged look. "Hey," he drones. He tries to offer a smile but only manages a grimace.

The girls shuffle into the room, squeezing up near Kathryn.

Their friend lies there, quiet and pale. Her hair is shaven away, and a thick layer of gauze is taped over her left eye. Her mouth and nose are covered by a mask attached to the breathing apparatus. The extent of her other injuries is hidden beneath the hospital blanket.

"How is she doing?" Audrey asks softly.

"She's..." Mr. Keynes's eyes fill with tears, and he attempts to blink them away. "They took her leg, and she's paralyzed from the waist down. She'll never walk again. I can't imagine it. She was always filled with life, bursting with energy, running, jumping, and hopping around. When- When she wakes up, how will I face her? How will I tell her that she won't ever walk again?"

Ranma stares at the blankets where Kathryn's knees should be, but the crumpled sheeting hides that which was taken. Then she glances up at the gauze over the left side of Kathryn's face. She takes a shuddering breath and turns to Mr. Keynes. "What-" she chokes. "What about her eye?"

Mr. Keynes merely shakes his head, watery eyes never leaving his daughter.

Ranma takes another wracking breath; her whole body quivers. Her lower lip trembles. Tears trace her cheek and trickle from her chin, splattering against the linoleum floor. She grabs the bed to support herself. "I-" she starts with a shaky voice. "I'm sorry. This-" She swallows and continues. "- is all my...- all my fault. If I hadn't moved her- If I hadn't used a tourniquet- If...-"

A large, warm, masculine hand covers her own. "We can't worry about all the what ifs."

Ranma continues to take several, deep, shaky breaths, and eventually calms down. She wipes a few tears away with her wrist.

Audrey shifts a bit, still standing with her crutch. "Do you know when she'll wake up?"

Mr. Keynes, again, shakes his head. "She's in a coma. She could wake up tomorrow. She could wake up next week. She could wake up next month. But they tell me that it is more likely that she'll wake up earlier."

The three of them continue to stare at Kathryn in silence. Then, once again, Audrey shifts, trying to find a comfortable position on her crutch. Mr. Keynes turns to look at the injured girl, as though noticing for the first time, then immediately stands.

"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Please, take my seat," he says, helping Audrey into the chair.

"Thanks," Audrey says. "But are you sure you'll be okay?"

"Yeah, you look like hell," adds Ranma.

"I'll be fine," Mr. Keynes replies, taking Audrey's position at Kathryn's bedside.

"No, you won't. Go get some sleep, Mr. Keynes," insists Ranma. "Kathryn would be mad at you."

Mr. Keynes yawns loudly, patting his open mouth. "Perhaps you are right," he says. "I'll go find a bench to lay upon." He trudges out of the room.

The children resume their quiet vigil. But other than the steady beat of the electrocardiogram, the slow, rhythmic hiss of the breathing apparatus, and the still form of comatose Kathryn, there isn't much to see. Ultimately, Ranma moves to lean against a wall and shoves her hands into her pockets.

She isn't sure how long she stood there, hands twiddling absently, before she found it – creased and crumpled, a piece of paper pulled from a bulletin board only two days ago. It is a flier. Above and center, abstract caricatures of a boy and a girl dance on skates. Below, bold letters proudly proclaim a paired skating event with a moderate cash prize. It is scheduled for the twenty-eighth. Now it will never happen.

Angrily, Ranma crushes it in her hand, squeezing the flier into a tiny, malformed ball. Then – thwam! – Ranma turns and slams her hand into the wall. Shattered fragments and dust from the destroyed concrete block rain to the ground. With a soft thump and a long sigh, Ranma rests her head against the painted surface.

"Are you okay?" Audrey asks.

"I'm just... frustrated," Ranma answers, pushing herself away. She turns to see an open newspaper in Audrey's lap. "Anything interesting?"

Audrey blinks, then lifts part of the paper, offering it to Ranma. "The front page story is interesting."

Ranma plucks the paper from her friend's hand, turning it to the front page.

_**Weapons and Drugs on the Streets!** – London, 20 August 1993 – Weapons and drugs seized in customs last week were stolen during transport last night. The officers in charge of the transport are missing in action and presumed dead. There are still no details on how the heist was accomplished, and no witnesses are forthcoming. The load contained military weapons and explosives in addition to over 1000 kilograms of cocaine, with an estimated value of £80 million (GBP). "This is a tragedy," declares Deputy Commissioner Wallace. "I find it terrifying that our officers will have to face criminals armed with cop-killer bullets, grenades, and even RPGs. This is evidence that we must further reduce arms control restrictions on the police to better combat this growing and increasingly dangerous criminal element." The Home Office- _

"Well," Ranma drawls, lowering the paper. "Last night really gutted, didn't it?"

"The night before a prolonged stay at a hospital usually does," a voice answers flatly, but not from the direction Ranma expected. Standing in the doorway is a heavyset, middle-aged woman dressed as a nurse. She stares momentarily at the fist-sized hole in the wall, then turns back to the kids. "You two will have to shoo while I get my work done."

The nurse stands aside, allowing the children to file into the hall. There, stepping out of the elevator, they see the familiar figures of Gareth, Elinore, and Hermione.

"I didn't think you'd make it until this evening," Ranma says, joining them.

"We're on lunch break. We thought we'd stop by, see Kathryn, then take you girls out for lunch," Gareth replies.

"That will have to wait for later," Audrey says. "A nurse is with Kathryn now."

Ranma's stomach growls. "Lunch ain't waitin' for later."

"-_ isn't_ -" Gareth and Hermione correct, simultaneously.

"I guess we'll have to see Kathryn later," Elinore says. "For now, let's eat. I believe I saw a nice diner on the way here."

The group makes their way to the car and then to the diner. Along the way, Ranma and Audrey answer questions regarding Kathryn's condition. Soon, they are seated, and food is on the way.

"Ranma, I..." Hermione trails off and bites her lower lip. She hands Ranma a sheet of folded parchment.

"What's this?" Ranma asks curiously, opening the letter.

"I sent a letter to St. Mungo's," Hermione explains. At Ranma's blank look, she glances both ways then hisses, "- the wizard's hospital for magical maladies and injuries. I tried to make a case for a vampire attack. This is their response."

Ranma only vaguely heard the last half of what Hermione had to say, already reading the letter.

_20 August 1993_

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_While your concern for your Muggle friend is admirable, there are no reports from the Ministry of vampire attacks on Muggles. The Ministry assures us that all vampires in Britain are well under control, and that such an event is impossible. In accordance with our regular policy, we cannot accept Muggle patients without explicit Ministry approval._

_Thank you for your inquiry,_

_Jeanne Greengrass_

_Secretary_

_St. Mungo's Hosptial for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

"Well under control," Ranma growls, fuming, absently crumpling the parchment between her hands. "What a bunch of-... crud."

Hermione snags the letter from her sister and attempts to smooth out the wrinkles. "Don't destroy the letter!" she chastises. "It might be useful."

"If you say so," Ranma replies, bitterly.

Hermione looks stricken. "I did my best!" she cries.

Ranma glances up, and offers her sister a half smile. "Sorry, _'neesan_. I'm not mad at you. It's just... everything."

Audrey quietly asks to see the letter. As she reads it, her own features darken, but she folds it nicely and returns it with a silent Thank you. A waitress approaches, carefully balancing all five orders on her arms. The food is swiftly set in its proper place. They begin to eat.

Ranma suddenly looks up from her meal, and blinks at Hermione. "_'Neesan_, did you just let Audrey _read_ something associated with the wizarding world?"

"Don't talk about it in public!" Hermione hisses, glancing around self-consciously. "And yes, I did let her read it. There's no point in hiding it from her, especially after having to explain everything to her all over again last night. Besides, it's not a textbook or anything."

Ranma looks puzzled, then her eyes brighten. "Oh, that's right! They were obliviated last night."

"Don't tell me you forgot!" Hermione screeches indignantly.

Eyes from the surrounding tables fixate on an abashed Hermione, who slowly settles back in her chair. Elinore makes a few placating gestures, and, eventually, they turn away.

"Oh, yes," Elinore says, turning to the younger of her daughters. "Two letters arrived for you this morning, too."

"You picked those up?" Hermione asks curiously.

"I thought she might like them," Elinore replies, pulling a pair of letters from her purse and handing them to Ranma, who is busy chewing a mouthful of food.

Ranma swiftly opens the letter one-handed, taking another bite with her opposite hand. The letter is short, crude, and to the point. The blanks are filled with a rough hand.

_You,_ Ranma Granger  _are hereby summoned to court to defend yourself against the__ charge of _ misdemeanor assault . _You are to proceed to _ Courtroom Seven  _on _ 20 August 1993  _at _9:30 am . _You have the right to summon witnesses in your defense. You have the right to speak in your own defense. You have the right to obtain representation. Your presence, however, is not required; the court will continue even in your absence._

_(undersigned)_

_ Rupert Lyons _ 20 August 1993

Ranma scowls and pushes the letter to the center of the table, then shoves a great deal of food in her mouth and opens the second letter.

_20 August 1993_

_In the case 19930820-7-1, you, Ranma Granger, have been convicted of misdemeanor assault against the persons of Anise Larkspur, Camassia Oleander, and Jonquil Rosier. The court has issued the following punishments:_

_(1) A penal fee of 15 Galleons shall be paid to the court by 20 September 1993._

_(2) You shall issue a formal, written apology to each of the offended parties and in duplicate to the court by no later than 20 September 1993._

_In addition, you have been placed on probationary status. Any future reports of misconduct on your part will be thoroughly reviewed and may result in sanctions such as suspension from Hogwarts. _

_(undersigned)_

_Rupert Lyons, Court Scribe_

_Benjamin Frederick Oleander, Presiding Judge_

Ranma slowly puts the second letter down.

"What's this about?" Gareth asks somberly, lowering the first letter.

Ranma makes a show of pointing out her puffed up cheeks, full of food. Meanwhile, Hermione snags up the two letters. As she reads, she casts dark, suspicious, scrutinizing glances in Ranma's direction.

Gareth continues to gaze evenly at Ranma. "I'm waiting."

Ranma swallows and mutters her explanation. "At Diagon Alley, three b-... pompous, pure-blood girls were blocking my path, insulting my Muggleborn heritage, and refusing to move." Ranma wipes her mouth with her napkin. "So, I _firmly_ but _gently_ moved them out of my path."

"This is absurd!" Hermione exclaims, tossing both letters back to the center of the table. "I only received the first letter a little after nine, and the judge is related to one of the plaintiffs!"

Gareth frowns and picks up the second letter.

"This should be illegal! It's an abuse of the court system!" Hermione rants.

Audrey giggles and glances at Elinore. "Hermione seems more upset than Ranma."

Ranma sighs. "I just don't have the energy for it anymore."

"- a violation of civil rights! a miscarriage of justice!"

"Hermione," Elinore commands, "calm down."

"What I can't believe is that I have to _apologize_ to them," Ranma grumbles.

"You will apologize," Gareth declares sternly, "and you'll make it, at least, _look _sincere. We'll also have to pay the fine. Be careful around those girls in the future."

"Of course," Ranma says. "I'm not stupid."

Hermione stares at Ranma in disbelief. "I can't believe you'd do that! How can you apologize and not be sincere about it?"

Ranma gazes quizzically at Hermione. Eventually, she answers. "Believe me, it's a lot easier in writing. I have lots of experience through Mr. Ogden."

Hermione's expression takes an aspect between confusion, disbelief, and horror. "They taught you to _lie_ in _school_!"

Ranma shrugs, Elinore stifles a laugh with her hand, and Gareth transforms a stiff glare into a deep breath and looks at his watch. "We have to go," he says. Soon, they are on their way to the hospital, where Ranma and Audrey are dropped off with a few parting words.

Once again, the two girls visit the receptionist, registering their names, then step into the elevator.

Minutes later, the girls are at Kathryn's side. Audrey is reading her newspaper, and Ranma fumbles through her pockets, eventually pulling out a random textbook. She scowls down at the cover of _Chemistry_, then eventually opens to a bookmarked page; redox reactions assault her mind, and she slumps to a seat on the floor.

Audrey giggles. "It only helps if you study _before _the test," she says.

"There's always the rematch."

"Are you planning to take the GCSE again?"

Ranma puffs a sigh, blowing away a lock of hair. "Probably not." She snaps the book shut and lays down, slipping it under her head as a pillow.

"It's nice to see you can get _some _use out of that book," Audrey utters before returning to her newspaper.

Ranma gazes lazily at the ceiling, making out patterns in the pits. Her eyes drift across the room, settling on a golden apple – abandoned, out of place, and sitting atop a machine just beyond her reach. She stares at it. She imagines it in her mouth – crisp, tart, and honey-sweet... enough to make her salivate. Slothfully, she lifts a hand in its direction, willing it to come to her, to roll off the counter and into her hand. It doesn't budge. Grumbling a little, she sits up and grabs it, then lies back down.

She takes a bite. Crunch! The taste... the taste is even better than she imagined, a perfect blend of sweet and sour, but not so strong as to overwhelm. Juices dribble down her chin, and she rolls the apple's crisp flesh within her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

She swallows.

Suddenly, the apple is slick and slimy, oozing in her palm, twisting between her fingers, and wriggling up her wrist. She looks at the apple and drops it, recoiling in horror. Hundreds of maggots crawl on every surface of the sickly, rotting flesh, and half-eaten worms pour from where she bit.

The taste and texture transform in her mouth, blood and rot, coating her tongue and palate, inescapable. Noxious vapor joins the flavor. Stomach surging, she scrambles to her knees; she tries to vomit, but only heaves.

She stumbles, dizzily.

The room rotates 'round and 'round, spinning, smearing, twisting away. Dark pits dance across the ceiling, growing brighter, growing distant. And the world falls down...

Ranma blinks, staring upwards at the night sky. Uncountable stars light the heavens, shining magnificently in Winter constellations. A dark shadow sweeps across a half-moon rising in the East.

She stands in a snowy glade, surrounded on all sides by coniferous forest. A freezing wind whistles through the trees, carrying icy particles. Ranma unconsciously pulls her cloak tighter and tightens her hood around her ears. She turns to her left and sees an odd pair of boulders sitting one atop the other at the edge of the glade, half-covered in snow. She trudges past them.

Hoot! Hoot! An owl calls softly through the night.

She breathes the scent of evergreen and frozen earth and exhales drifting puffs of white mist. Her feet lead her unerringly into the forest, over a fallen tree bridging a half-frozen stream, and around a strange and beautiful formation of crystals, jutting from the ground. A flash of white dashes across her vision and vanishes into the shadows. She passes under ropes of dangling ivy and through a thicket of shrubs. And she continues...

As she walks, the moon rises, the sounds of forest creatures slowly diminish, replaced by a low chant, and she feels a warm breeze drifting from ahead. She moves forward. The forest opens into a vast clearing, and in the center is a brilliant light. It swallows her vision.

"Ranma," a voice calls softly.

"Ranma, you need to wake up," the voice insists.

Ranma feels someone nudging her, and she mumbles incoherently, blinking her eyes open.

Audrey is standing above her, rocking Ranma with a foot. "The nurse is here," she says. "We need to move so she can work."

Ranma groans and stands, then frowns, searching left and right. "Where's the apple?"

"What apple?"

-oOo-

_Dear Jonquil Rosier,_

_It has been brought to my attention that I have been charged and convicted of misdemeanor assault for actions on the date of 19 August 1993. Unfortunately, I couldn't make it to court, having received notice of my court date and notice of my conviction at the same time. As deemed by the court, I must offer official apology to you and the other offended parties. Here it is:_

_I'm sorry for my behavior. It was inappropriate. In the future, I will be sure to show the correct amount of restraint. Should such an encounter happen again, it will go nothing like it did before._

_Your efforts remind me that there are always consequences for actions, especially those intended to harm. It would be wrong for anybody to escape justice. You set a shining example by taking action to ensure those consequences are delivered. I will endeavor to follow your example; I am confident that I will be inspired to righteous action by your presence._

_Sincerely,_

_Ranma Granger_

"So, what do you think?" asks Ranma, leaning over Audrey's shoulder.

"It seems... vaguely threatening," Audrey answers, handing the letter back.

"Ah, but is it _accusably_ so?

Audrey considers it. "... No, I don't believe it is."

"Then it's perfect!" Ranma exclaims.

Whipping out a fine fountain pen – a parting gift from Mr. Ogden – the redhead rapidly transcribes several copies of the apology by hand, labeling a letter to each girl and providing duplicates for the court. For any other child, this would be an onerous task. For Ranma, it is a labor of mere minutes that produces results in her usual, impeccable script. As an afterthought, she makes an additional copy for herself; this apology had taken several hours to craft, and it might be useful as a template in the future.

The room is larger, with a broad window facing the park outside. Kathryn lies peacefully in her bed, breathing naturally, without assistance from any machines, though an IV continues to sustain her.

As usual, Audrey sits at Kathryn's side. Gone is her crutch and sling, and in their place a pile of books sits under her chair. Lifting the top one into her lap and opening it to a bookmarked page, she begins reading aloud, in a soft voice, to Kathryn.

Nearby, Ranma stoops over a small table, scratching madly at the parchment with her Parker 51. Shoved to one side is a mishmash of cards and candies, and a vase totters dangerously at the edge – gifts left by cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and acquaintances.

It has been a week and other visitors have come and gone with vaguely worded well-wishes and promises to return when she wakes. Ranma and Audrey, however, spent most of their time at Kathryn's side. They found ways to occupy themselves, with Audrey reading softly to Kathryn, and Ranma listening in.

"Done!" Ranma exclaims, absently catching the vase as it falls off the table. After placing her parchment to the side, she begins moving the cards and candies into some semblance of order.

"Has anything ever come of the investigation?" Audrey asks suddenly.

Ranma blinks. "Didn't I tell you? It was shut down, according to Jon."

Audrey's hands tighten around her book, and her soft voice carries an unusually hard edge. "Why?"

"I dunno. What does it matter? It's not like the police could have done anything, anyway... except get killed."

"They shouldn't be allowed to get away with what they've done!" Audrey retorts. "And why did the police shut it down? It's not like they knew _vampires_ were involved; to them, it was just an assault. Do they not care about Kathryn?"

Ranma gazes glumly at the table in front of her, and slowly stands a card on its end.

"Did you say something to the detective?" Audrey asks, frustrated.

A bitter snort erupts from the redhead. "The detective doesn't care about Kathryn or catching the criminal. He was more interested in accusing me of murder."

Audrey's eyes widen, then she scowls. "How can they accuse you of murder? You did the right thing. Those monsters deserved to die. All of them."

Ranma grunts noncommittally, averting her eyes and slowly raising another card on its end.

Audrey takes a long, protracted breath, then gradually releases it. "Do you have any idea why the investigation was closed? Did Jon say anything?"

"All Jon said is that some government guys came in with official papers and shut it down."

Audrey frowns. "Government guys? You mean, like the Ministry?"

"It _better_ not be," Ranma growls, beginning to move things about more roughly. "... not after they refused to help Kathryn."

Audrey sighs and turns her eyes, surveying the area beyond the window. She watches a murder of crows chase an injured pigeon through the air, returning to the rooftop only after the pigeon has gained sufficient distance.

"... This must be some sort of sick joke."

The mumbled words gain Audrey's attention and she turns to see Ranma scrutinizing one of Kathryn's cards. "What is it?"

Ranma's only answer is to fling the card in Audrey's direction. It tumbles and twirls through the air before sliding to a stop atop her book.

The cover of the card displays a pale, cartoon Dracula with arms raised and fangs bared in the trite yet classical manner. On the inside is a short, unsigned note, printed on a dot matrix and stapled to the card.

_Dear Miss Granger:_

_If you wish to know more, please visit the phone booth at Goodge and Tottenham at 2:00 pm any time this week._

Audrey closes the card.

"What do you think?" Ranma asks.

Audrey glances at the clock then faces Ranma. "Why not go? It's obviously about the vampires."

Ranma shrugs, absently grabbing a box of chocolates left by Kathryn's grandmother and popping one in her mouth. "Might as well," she says through her chewing. Then she stands and heads for the door.

She easily reaches the moderately busy T-section. People flow to and fro, utilizing the nearby Underground. Ranma scratches her head, standing in front of a quartet of bright red phone booths. After a minute, she shrugs and enters one at random.

Almost immediately, the phone rings.

Ranma searches the nearby area and rooftops suspiciously before picking up the phone. "Uh... Hello?"

"Hello, Miss Granger," answers a raspy voice. "I was hoping you would contact me today. I'm glad you finally found my note."

"What's this about?" Ranma inquires.

"We share a mutual set of interests, Miss Granger – in particular, a pair of boys. They were a trio... until last week."

Ranma glances around, again, this time scanning the windows of the building across the street.

"There is no need to be nervous, Miss Granger. I'm not going to harm you."

"Who are you?" Ranma demands.

... Silence ...

For a while, Ranma allows it to hang there. Then she asks, "What do you want?"

"I wish to make a trade, Miss Granger: information for, shall I call it... entertainment?"

Ranma pauses, then grimaces. "Now listen here, buddy -"

"Pardon," the raspy voice interrupts. "I apologize; there seems to be a misunderstanding. By entertainment, I meant a demonstration of your... martial arts prowess. In a practical setting."

"... I'm listening," Ranma replies noncommittally.

"It seems our two mutual friends have a habit of visiting a dance club called The Bottleneck every Tuesday and Thursday night."

Click.

Ranma blinks and slowly returns the receiver to its cradle. She stares at the phone for a while longer, almost expecting it to ring again. Then she turns and leaves the phone booth, muttering, "If he's not gonna tell me what he wanted, then he's not gonna get it."

-oOo-

The Bottleneck – a dance club for vampires. Ha ha ha.

Ranma stands perched upon a building overlooking the rebuilt warehouse carrying that name. He – for Ranma had taken the male form – is dressed in black from head to toe in a loose-fitting garb, looking much like a masked kid-ninja. He absently fingers the four sharpened wooden sticks, torn earlier from a chair found in a dumpster.

Audrey's words return to him. _They're monsters. They deserve to die. While we're at home sleeping, they're probably out on the streets hurting more people like Kathryn. _

Ranma sighs. Those words fail to relieve his unease. Their deaths wouldn't bother him; if they had been normal humans, they would already be dead. Of course, if they had been normal humans, Ranma would probably be in jail. Even so, it isn't the idea of _killing_ that nauseates him. It's the _hunting_, the _execution_, the willful and purposeful intent to _murder_...

_They're vampires, not people._

Can the word murder even apply to a vampire? Audrey says no, but the twisting, sickening feeling in Ranma's gut makes such semantic hair-splitting meaningless.

He wishes Kathryn was awake. She has a way of taking away all the difficult decisions. If she was awake, things never would have gotten this far... or, if they did, he'd feel a whole lot better about it.

Ranma glances at Hermione's watch before dropping it back into a pocket. It's Tuesday... no, Wednesday, September 1st, 12:07 am. He had been sitting there for almost two hours, and in a little under eleven more, he'll be leaving on the Hogwarts express. He'll have to make a decision soon if he wants to get any sleep: go in, or go home.

The bar is closer.

Below, a bored bouncer smokes in front of the Bottleneck, leaning lazily near the doorway. Raucous music blasts through the opening door, and a few patrons trickle out of the dance club.

Ranma leaps to the club's roof and rapidly makes his way to an old trapdoor work entrance he had scoped out earlier. Grabbing the padlock between his hands, he jerks it open, destroying it with relative silence. He waits until he hears the cacophony accompanying another group of leaving patrons, then he quickly opens the trapdoor and slips underneath.

The noise inside is deafening.

The majority of the floor is open, dimly lit, and covered with a light crowd of people dancing, drinking, mingling, and making out. Around the edge of the club are private booths and tables, and at the far end is a well-stocked bar lit with neon lights. Metal stairs rise to the club's VIP room, hidden behind its mirrored panels.

Ranma, himself, stands on a workman's platform, high above the floor. Many of the club's multi-colored lights are accessible from his position, blinding the people below to his presence.

He scans the main floor. Though a few times he sees small baggies and money changing hands, he fails to find his targets. He searches the booths, and stops when he meets a pair of eyes, staring up at him from between the brims of round, yellow sunglasses and a red fedora hat. The tall man wears a matching red trench coat, and is indolently reclined in a corner booth. With large, white-gloved hands, he raises a bag containing a dark liquid in Ranma's direction, then lowers it to take a sip through a straw.

Ranma blinks, then moves on.

He discovers his targets in a booth on a nearby wall. The burly boy is bent over a small mirror and sniffing white dust through a straw. The blue-haired boy is drinking green-bottled beer and conversing with a third boy. The third boy has curly black hair, wide green eyes, and wears a t-shirt with the words Audere est Facere emblazoned in a semi-circle around an image of a football.

Ranma again fingers the makeshift stakes in his pocket, ensuring they are readily available, and slowly pulls one out. He weighs it in his hand, as though weighing a man's life. Then he steels himself. It's time to take action.

A graceful arc carries Ranma to the burly boy, who is conveniently leaned over his mirror. Thunk. The stake tears through the boy's chest, and the force from the blow shoves him into the table. Flames begin to lick up the stake, charring the nearby clothing; the boy's skin rapidly begins to dry, crack, and crumble, flowing like rivers into a rapidly growing pile of ash.

Ranma stares the blue-haired boy into the eye, hand fishing in his pocket for another stake. Behind him, faint sounds of people beginning to yell join the roar of the music. The blue-haired boy backs away, pressing himself against a wall, wide-eyed gaze flickering between his decaying friend and the masked ninja's piercing cerulean eyes.

The second stake comes out.

Yelling something inaudible, the third boy lunges, grappling Ranma's wrist with both hands.

Ranma attempts to shake and jerk his hand free, but the effort is in vain. Resorting to a second tactic, he slams his free fist into the boy's attractive, Italian face. Crunch. The boy's cheek bone collapses under the pressure, but his hands don't loosen in the slightest. Ranma repeats the tactic. Slam! Slam! Slam! It doesn't work, though it leaves the face a bloody mess. Irritated, Ranma jerks the boy from his seat in the booth, reaches over and breaks several of the curly-haired boy's fingers, then kicks him off.

A small crowd is gathering, staring at the spectacle with morbid fascination. Behind them, several suits shove their way forward.

Ranma turns to face his target, only to find the blue-haired boy in the process of leveling his pistol and pulling the trigger. Immediately, Ranma dives to the ground, kicking the table up in the process.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The first two bullets fly directly into the crowd, and the last three tear through the table; splinters rain over Ranma, but the bullets take semi-random paths into the mass.

Crash. A green bottle cracks on Ranma's head, emptying its contents over... her.

The music stops, replaced by the sounds of people screaming, panicking, fleeing. The suits are pulling out their own pistols, and suddenly their paths are free. The crowd retreats like a tide, stampeding towards the exits, leaving their fallen companions behind.

Choosing the better part of valor, Ranma dives around the booth to the other side of the table, efficiently smacking the gun out of the blue-haired boy's hand in the process.

Ranma lifts her sharpened chair-leg.

"Don't kill me!" the blue-haired boy begs pathetically, gazing at her with wide, pitiful, crimson eyes.

Ranma hesitates for only a second, then thrusts her crude weapon forward.

Bang! Ba-bang! Ba-ba-ba-bang! Bang! Bullets begin tearing more holes through the table, this time from the outside. Ranma and the blue-haired boy both gasp in shock as more than one bullet strikes each of them.

The impacts spoil Ranma's aim, and she plants her stake into a lung. Not concerning herself with the failure, she tugs the blue-haired boy around, imposing him between her and the line of fire. The boy jerks from a multitude of shots as the wooden table disintegrates behind him.

Ka-klunk.

A grenade... right at her feet. Ranma allows herself a fraction of a second to stare at it in utter shock, then throws the blue-haired boy atop the grenade and immediately leaps away.

Ka-boom! The explosion is dulled by her improvised meat-shield.

Ranma lands on a table two booths away, and quickly kicks two beer bottles and an ashtray, knocking out three of the seven suits, who are in the process of adjusting their aim. "What kind of dance club is this?" Ranma mutters irritably, reaching into her pockets. She throws one stake, then ano- Wait! Ranma manages to close her hand around Hermione's watch before it escapes and stuffs it back in her pocket. She leaps towards the platform, throwing the last stake...

... and finds herself face-to-barrel with a GLOCK 18. She sidesteps and sweeps the barrel aside just in time to avoid a stream of bullets.

Blocking Ranma's path is a buxom woman wearing leather stiletto-heeled boots, solid black hose, a lustrous black mini-skirt, a matching jacket over a white blouse, and a wide, shit-eating grin. Between her teeth is the pin to the grenade in her left hand. She waggles her eyebrows, then drops the grenade, simultaneously flipping backwards off the platform.

"Ah, shit..." Ranma gripes as the grenade clatters against the metal grating. Then she, too, dives backwards off the platform.

In the air, Ranma spies the sexy psychopath directing a pair of automatic pistols, and soon they are spewing bullets at Ranma. Ranma twists, doing her best to minimize her profile and protect her vitals. Despite her efforts, half a dozen rounds pepper her leg, her hip, and her gut.

Ka-boom! Fragments of grenade and torn metal grating blast into the ground below, and several people collapse. With a shrieking groan and a series of sparks, the supports buckle and the platform begins to topple.

Whump! Ranma lands on her back among a group of people hiding behind a table in a corner booth. A few of them back away, staring at her in abject terror. Ranma scrambles to her feet then stumbles on her injured leg.

A warm hand catches her shoulder, and Ranma turns to see a young woman with short sandy-blond hair and bright blue eyes, supporting her with a gentle smile.

"Are you okay?" the woman asks.

Ranma nods.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Fifteen bullets perforate the table in under a second.

The woman's head jerks forward, and she falls onto Ranma's shoulder, as though to embrace the child. Ranma almost returns the hug, then notices a wet redness spreading through the woman's hair, centered in the back of her head.

Ranma gently lays her down, then looks around. Two people are clutching at minor injuries, and one man is clasping at his own neck, struggling to breathe as blood pours between his fingers. Turning away from them, she peeks over the table.

Standing in the center of the floor, almost slothfully loading a new clip into her pistol, is the buxom woman in stiletto heels. Behind her, the platform crashes to the ground with a resounding clang, the shattered lights throwing off showers of electric sparks.

Clap. Clap. Clap. "Fabulous! Fabulous! What _wonderful_ entertainment! It's been a long time since I've seen a good, old-fashioned staking! It sends _chills_ down my spine. Impaling has always been one of my favorites." The speaker, the man in the red fedora hat, sweeps his legs off the table and stands.

"Mary," calls a smooth, urbane voice. "Take Michael and leave."

Ranma turns to see a man with long, silver hair and a longer gray coat taking measured steps down the metal stairs that lead to the VIP room. In his left hand, he carries a sword with a golden cross hilt; from pommel to tip, it is almost as long as she is tall.

"Gabriel..." the man in the fedora utters, the single word containing a world of spite. "I see the Vatican still hasn't recovered Laurus et Moeror, though I doubt it's for a lack of trying."

"Alucard," Gabriel replies neutrally. "What an unpleasant surprise. I haven't seen you since I hired the Belmonts in... what was it?"

"The mid eighteenth century," Alucard grates between clenched teeth.

"That's right." Gabriel pauses, as though reminiscing fondly. "Those glory-seeking Belmonts always were eager to test the might of their enchanted blood against yours. I recall relieving them of some rather nice artifacts upon their return." A cursory glance from his gray eyes captures the man's white gloves and the arcane sigils decorating them. "I have heard, however, that it is not the Belmonts but another clan entirely who ultimately choked and collared you. What is it like, being a dog of war for the queen-bitch of the Hellsing family?"

"Same as always, Gabriel..." Alucard says, slowly lifting an enormous handgun from under his coat. "... all that nobility, all that Vatican training, and still no sense of when to shut up. What's it like, being exiled from your old family?"

"It's quite liberating, actually, very unlike being slave to a little girl. Though I must say, you sure do pick them young. How old is she, anyway? Seventeen? Has she asked you to prom, yet?"

"Die," Alucard commands. He lifts his gun and pulls the trigger, sending a massive bullet hurtling from its custom .454 Casull cartridge at almost twice the speed of sound towards Gabriel's skull.

Almost casually, Gabriel plucks it out of the air. Ranma's eyes widen as she absently tears off her second sleeve and begins stripping it into bandages.

"Testy, testy," Gabriel says, rolling the hot bullet between his gloved fingers like soft putty. "Silver, Alucard? You should know such things don't work on me." He drops it disdainfully to the ground.

"Someday you're going to lose that pretty little head of yours."

"Perhaps," Gabriel states easily. "But today is not that day."

Alucard slowly grins in a very evil manner. "Would you care to make a bet?" he inquires. "The Hellsing family has granted me more power than you can _possibly_ imagine."

Gabriel's neutral features falter only faintly. "A bet?" he inquires. "You know I'm not a gambling man, Alucard, and I think you'll find me no easier to kill than last we met."

"We'll see," Alucard says. His sharp, pointy fangs flash white, very pronounced in the dim light. "Releasing control art restriction to level three, level two, level one." His voice is monotonous, and his bright red trench coat fades into darkness as all light is leeched out of his immediate area. "Situation A. The Cromwell approval is now in effect. Hold release until target is silenced." Eyes... hundreds of white, glowing eyes begin to open from within the darkness surrounding him.

Ranma feels something within her surge, violently. Dozens of the eyes suddenly swirl, focusing on her position. _... join us ... _Her cold iron amulet heats to scalding against her skin; the feeling immediately dissipates, and the eyes slide away.

Gabriel slashes his sword contemptuously through the air. "Is this the best a hundred years of Hellsing research can do?" he asks. "Chaining one monster within another? I suppose it makes sense, given the Hellsing clan's penchant for making deals with the Devil. Laurus et Moeror will cut you nonetheless."

A booming, hollow laughter emanates from the shadows surrounding Alucard, and they begin to flow, forming random, jagged edges and many-eyed wolfish heads. "_One_ monster, Gabriel? Oh, no, it's _so_ much more than that." And with those words, he rolls forward like a tide of darkness.

Gabriel stands there, calm and unpreturbed, for a moment longer... then he's gone. Silver lines flash through the amorphous, many-eyed blackness, but it merely reforms. Several times, Ranma blinks, as she sees what appears to be multiple Gabriels dashing and attacking from different directions. In return, the shadows lash out, attempting to box the silver blur. Both recoil from or flash around each other's strikes.

Unable to effectively follow the fight, Ranma tightens a final bandage around her thigh and returns to her own situation. She considers the two sharpened wooden table legs in her lap; she vaguely recalls creating them but doubts they'll be of any immediate use – if one can block a bullet, one can stop a stake, and she wouldn't even know where to start finding the heart on the other guy. Regardless, she pockets them.

The regular exits are useless. With her injured leg and without a platform, she can't possibly reach the workman's entrance in the roof. That leaves the main exit and fire exit, both of which would leave her exposed; the idea of gaining the attention of the monsters in the center of the room does not appeal to her.

She turns around. Behind her is the man with the injured neck and bloody hand; he lies slumped to one side, still cross-legged and back against the booth. Ranma crawls past him, then punches the wall. Her fist crushes through dry wall, cork, and fibrous insulation, then stops against steel sheeting with a subdued clang, and she grunts as her punctured gut spasms in response to the abuse. She glances back to see if she gained any unwanted attention, and sees the two surviving occupants watching her warily; as she had done, they are tearing bandages from their own clothing. She peeks over the table.

The fight has ended.

Gabriel is held, suspended in the air, by a mass of shadowy arms. The sword remains in his grip, but his left arm is twisted backwards by no less than four, dark, massive hands. Alucard slowly forms from a cloud of amorphous black, an enormous eye in the center of his chest; his hat is gone and his wild black hair roams free, as though alive. White light shines from a stump where his left arm should be, and many of the once open eyes are blinded by similar gashes carved across his body and the floating black mass.

"As you can see," Alucard says, "Laurus et Moeror doesn't quite hold to its reputation. Now, before I kill you, may I ask to whom you sold Giribadara Asera?"

"Of course not. A good businessman never betrays a contract."

"Good?" Alucard chuckles. "Are you still holding onto delusions from your time as a paladin? I saw no less than forty sales of cocaine tonight, and I wasn't even paying attention."

"I may be a very bad person, Alucard, but I'm a very good businessman," Gabriel replies. "And my time as a paladin doesn't exactly qualify me for any greater titles of goodness. Why, I once burned down an entire village to halt the spread of heresy..." he smiles, almost fondly. "Not that I believe in such garbage anymore."

Alucard saunters around the suspended man. "Well, it's been amusing, Gabriel. However, I must get going, and, as much as I'd like to eat you, I realize that you are a dish that _must_ be savored. So, I'll just have to-"

Gabriel, taking sudden action, bites his own tongue and spits; he looks vaguely irritated as he does so, as though the notion of spitting is so far beneath him as to be vulgar. The silvery spittle and blood strikes the single shadow-hand grappling his right arm and sizzles, causing the dark hand to loosen briefly. That's all it takes. His hand flashes around, and a jet of silver shoots from a jar into Alucard's face.

For a moment, the shadows writhe and become translucent as Alucard recoils in pain. Gabriel falls through the dark mass; his feet touch ground, and he's gone.

The remaining shadows gradually dissipate.

"Unicorn blood..." Alucard seethes, using his remaining hand to wipe the silver sludge from his half-melted face. He slops it onto the floor with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. His remaining eye searches the area before lighting upon the open workman's entrance, above. "... ran away again." A sneer crosses his face, his half-formed lip curling in disgust.

Then Alucard turns his gaze to Ranma, who is busy creeping along the wall towards the main exit in a trite and almost comical ninja style. "Ninja girl!" he calls, striding purposefully towards her.

Ranma freezes, rotating to face Alucard in a protracted, mechanical manner, like a child caught stealing cookies.

The man's large, gloved hand grasps her under her chin and lifts her into the air, eyes to eye with himself. Ranma squirms and struggles, but the fingers are a vice around her jaw. Instead, she is forced to stare into the man's bright orange right eye, the porous mess that was once the left side of his face, and the wide, shark-like grin, wherin every tooth has taken the angular form of a fang.

Ranma panics a little, and her eyes dart around, noting the distance to the relative exits and the tools on the paths that might allow her escape. Her hand, meanwhile, surreptitiously digs into her pocket.

All in a moment, her right hand lashes out, planting a sharpened wooden table leg directly through Alucard's heart, while simultaneously, her left hand grips at his thumb, valiantly straining to slip her fingers beneath it.

Alucard looks down at his chest. Seconds later, his visage gradually rises; though it doesn't seem possible, his grin is even wider. "Ha! Wonderful! You are amusing, Ninja girl," he declares, with a gale of deep, hearty laughter. He glances across the area. "Look! Look around us!"

He rotates her, allowing her to view the devastation. Bodies lie dead or dying on the floor – three under the platform, and two near her initial targets. She sees a few people huddled in corners, hiding in the darkness of their booths. She notices that the suits and their fallen companions are gone. The booth in which she fought the blue-haired boy is an impenetrable mess of splinters and rubble.

"You did this! Isn't it magnificent?" Alucard asks, rotating the masked child to face him.

She tries responding, but finds her jaw pinched tight. She settles for _glaring_.

Alucard chuckles and drops her to the floor. "Go! Run home, Ninja girl! You wouldn't want to be late for school."

He releases rolling waves of booming laughter as she makes a bee-line towards the exit.

A squat, balding man in a navy-blue suit slides out of the shadows, stopping next to Alucard, who slowly brings his chuckling to a halt.

"I like her," Alucard states.

"I thought you might be interested," the short man's raspy voice replies. "Will you talk to Integra about recruiting her?"

Alucard considers this for a minute. "Maybe," he finally answers. "But, in the mean time, take care she doesn't start chasing after boys, will you?"

Alucard chuckles again at the disturbed look on the bald man's face.

-oOo-

**Price of Admission: 1 Review. Pay as you leave.**


	8. Here's Hogwarts

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

(alpha)

**Started:** December 26, 2005

**Last Update:** May 12, 2007

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**Short story summary (only one sentence!):**

_Ranma was adopted out of an insane asylum by Elinore and Gareth Granger then made friends with two girls named Audrey and Kathryn and eventually met Hermione with whom she doesn't get along too well but does love dearly as a sister even though a spat between them ended up with Ranma leaving only to be followed by Kathryn who was injured by a blue-haired vampire that happens be subordinate to a cocaine lord vampire named Gabriel whom Ranma encountered when she later targeted the vampires who had hurt Kathryn with an assault that ultimately left several civilians dead and Ranma with injuries on the very morning the Hogwarts Express leaves for Hogwarts._

(BREATHE!)

Anyhow, it's been a while since our last posted chapter. I figured you could use a reminder.

**Last Chapter:**

_The diagnosis for Kathryn was not pleasant – amputated left leg, missing left eye, broken back, and still in a coma more than a week after the incident. Ranma, Audrey, and Mr. Keynes were forced to deal with their angst and frustration at her condition, staying at her side as they could, hoping she would awaken. _

_Detectives Miles Long and Ken Brady of the Criminal Investigations Department (CID) visited the scene and investigated the assault. There, they discovered far more blood than belonged to Kathryn alone, and a pile of ash that still eludes Miles's analysis. Upon seeing the blue-eyed, redheaded Asian at the local police station, Miles remembered her description from investigating the wrongful death of a boy almost two years ago – an event from Chapter One. He began to interrogate Ranma, suspecting the child may have killed again. Fortunately for Ranma, the investigation was forcefully closed by an agent from MI5 named Hanz Schuart. _

_Ranma dealt with injustice inflicted by the trio of girls seen in Diagon Alley. They managed to leverage the Ministry's court system against the red-headed muggleborn, turning a non-violent shove into "misdemeanor assault." Ranma is now on official probation; any future displays of violence (or anything that can be vaguely interpreted as violence by a biased judge) might get Ranma suspended from Hogwarts. Ranma also had to write formal apologies and pay a meager fine. It is unlikely the girls will be satisfied with the apologies Ranma actually wrote._

_Agent Hanz Schuart, during his investigation, acquired Kathryn's brass omnioculars and developed an interest in Ranma. Further, he proves to be no stranger to the supernormal, and he has connections to a secret organization called Hellsing. The MI5 agent tracked down the remaining vampires from the assault on Kathryn then told Ranma to be at a bar and dance-club called "The Bottleneck." His stated motivation was 'entertainment' – to watch another display of Ranma's abilities._

_Ranma didn't quite understand, but fulfilled her role admirably. She staked one of the vampires, and tossed the other atop a live grenade. However, the conflict did not end well. It turns out that the club was merely a front for selling cocaine – a business in which a powerful vampire named Gabriel is involved, along with his companions Mary and Nathan, and his many-great grandnephew, Michael – a close friend of Ranma's targets. Guns were drawn, bullets were fired, and people were injured... including Ranma. _

_In the end, Alucard, who was present at Hanz's suggestion, prevented Ranma's situation from growing any worse._

**Author Notes:**

_Many reviewers have expressed concerns. We not only left Kathryn in a sorry state; we introduced the high-power Hellsing vampires and plenty of firearms, making Ranma a much smaller fish in this story's pond. What can I say? We're writing a dark story; it helps to prove Ranma is hardly invincible._

_Regarding **Kathryn**, I can only state that her injuries (broken back, amputated leg, and damaged eye) are important to future plot and character-development directions... some predictable, and others much less so. I do look forward to speculation regarding this. _

_Regarding **firearms**, many believe that their true power wasn't displayed adequately. However, ballistics simulations and physics models both indicate that anyone who can take a punch that Ranma can throw (without having the fist break the flesh) will only suffer a few inches penetration from a typical 9mm Luger – enough to cut into the flesh and be incredibly painful, but hardly deadly (unless a bullet hits a major artery). Ranma would have more reason to fear heavy pistols (.44 Magnum or .454 Casull) or military rifles. See the forum for greater detail. _

_Regarding the crossover with Kohta Hirano's '**Hellsing**, I must inform those of you hoping for immediate involvement that, at the moment, it is more of a cameo role; its appearance here allows for greater involvement a few story-years down the line, when it becomes a real component of the story. As with the other crossovers, I don't expect or require you readers to know anything about Hellsing while reading this fiction. For those of you who are curious or unaware, Alucard is the only character appearing last chapter that is actually from Hirano's manga. I don't guarantee he'll show up again soon. Hellsing proper doesn't take place until 1999. If you have any questions, please visit my forum._

_Anyhow, on with the story!_

**Chapter Seven: Here's Hogwarts!**

_Character is determined more by the lack of certain experiences than by those one has had. _

– _Friedrich Nietzsche_

**September 1993**

**-o0o-**

Pound! Pound! Pound!

"Ranma! Get up! It's nine-thirty already!" Hermione's tones resonate through the door.

Pound! Pound! Pound! The door rattles on its hinges.

Ranma groans and pries open tired eyes. The digital clock by her bed proclaims the time in unreadable, red blurs. After rubbing her vision clear with her wrist, she confirms her sister's statement. It's nine-twenty-one, and she has less than an hour to prepare for her new school. At eleven, the Hogwarts Express leaves King's Cross.

"Fine! Be that way. But if you don't get up this time, then I'm just going to leave you there." The vexed voice is followed by footsteps quickly thumping down the stairs.

The worn redhead shifts, moving to rise. She swings her feet off the bed and sits up, wincing in acute agony as abdominals pull taut and feet touch the ground. Finally, she stands and wobbles; the damaged muscles in her left leg spasm, and her hand reaches out, bracing her body against her desk.

The world spins, guts roil, breath quickens, and the child chokes on a metallic, souring stench. Blood. Ranma's room reeks of it. Bright blue sheets are matted with the substance; dark splotches of red and brown lie where her belly and legs once rested. Her slacks and blouse are a rumpled, ruddy ruin after being torn and worn through the night. Her stomach surges, and she clutches at her mouth as the awful acids rise, burning her esophagus and biting her tongue. She swallows, forcing the foul, fetid fluids back down. Her insides rebel, and moments later she's making a limping, staggering rush to the bathroom.

"Bluuaagh!" spews Ranma, kneeling over the cramped room's commode. The sound of blood and acid splashing into scented waters is punctuated by a sharp clatter. As the pink clouds spread to translucency, they reveal a single, deformed and acid-decayed hunk of lead and flaky copper at the bottom of the basin. It's a bullet.

Ranma stares at it a second longer then flushes everything out of sight.

She drags herself over to the sink and flips on the faucet. After washing her hands with soap and a scrub, she cups a little water and brings it to her lips. The cool fluid is swished around her mouth then crudely spat down the drain, taking with it the abhorrent taste.

The fledgling witch gazes into the mirror above the sink. Gazing back is a child – weak, tired, and pale. Her bedraggled red hair is still in its braid and soggy with sweat; her bangs stick to her forehead, and her bloody blouse rests crinkled and lopsided across her shoulders. Her image carries none of her essence, none of her personality, none of the witch leaving for school this morning, and none of the ruthless warrior that fought last night. She wonders why she thought it might. Did she expect her sins to show on her skin? Does she want them to? But her image displays only a girl – a short, pretty, eleven-year old girl... who, somehow, can't bring herself to smile. Not now. Not yet.

She scowls angrily at her reflection. Her reflection scowls stormily in return. The two of them stand in stalemate, each looking deep into the other's cerulean orbs as though taking a measure, weighing a soul, and finding it wanting. But they are not two. Ranma averts her eyes and splashes her face with the chilly waters.

With one swift motion, Ranma sweeps her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. Her black iron amulet flops and sways, dangling on its silver chain against the pale, white flesh of her childish chest. Beneath, black bandages bind her belly, among the last remnants of her homemade ninja suit, the rest having been burned in a city trashcan last night. Caked and crusted flakes of crimson crack and crumble to the floor as the bindings peel away, stripping thick scabs from sore skin and revealing a trio of encrusted pits oozing vital fluids – souvenirs of the evening's events. With a wince, Ranma pokes and prods at the lesions, aggravating the bleeding and creating new waves of intense pain. There are three holes and one bullet accounted for. The prodding reveals a second bullet buried in her gut, near the surface of her abdomen... no deeper than the second knuckle of her little finger.

Ranma quickly cleans her hands under the faucet's rushing waters and begins rifling through drawers and doors, placing anything remotely useful on the counter, and wishing she had access to the medkit in the master bedroom. Among the items that she collects are a small pair of tweezers, a nail file, a small box of band aids, floss, and a bottle each of surgical spirit and hydrogen peroxide.

She stares at the supplies and sighs, "I guess a doctor would be too much to ask for."

Ranma knows this isn't true. A few comments would have Gareth and Elinore rushing to find a doctor... even a discrete one, if Ranma demanded it. However, it would raise more questions than Ranma is prepared to answer, make her miss the Hogwarts Express, and leave a trail for Detective Sergeant Long to follow like a bloodhound. She'll need to do the job herself.

Ranma's lips curl as she lifts the tiny tweezers between her fingers. The two prongs are neither long enough nor wide enough to remove a bullet from her body... not even the shallow bullet. However, her disgust is not directed at the tool but, rather, at her hands.

Last night, she really bodged the job.

It was simple, really – enter, grab, stake, stab, and escape. It wasn't much of a plan... especially for Ranma, whose solutions were oft-condemned as _needlessly complicated_ during critical thinking lessons at Headwings. But it was her plan. At some level, she loathed contemplating the murder, so she had avoided the effort... and it showed. She hadn't entered with full knowledge of the situation. She didn't expect to face goons with guns, a girl with grenades, at least four vampires, and...whatever Gabriel and Alucard are. From all she had seen, _The Bottleneck_ served primarily human clientèle. Ranma snorts. She should have trusted her tactless pun. Yet she entered the club woefully unprepared. Four wooden sticks? She should have brought a shotgun and a chainsaw. As it is, things went badly, innocents died, and her blood was left at the scene.

_... blood – on the floor, on her hands, in her hair, everywhere_

Ranma draws a deep, shuddering breath and splashes her face. Death... is not like the movies.

Her eyes fall away from her reflected image, and she once again takes action. There are two more bullets to remove from her gut plus those in her leg. She's wasted too much time already. Without more than a moment's hesitation, Ranma lifts the large bottle of surgical spirits between her small hands, takes a cursory glance at the long list of instructions, then twists off the cap, leans back, and spills the solution liberally over her wounds. The fluids flow from her belly, soaking her blood-stained slacks and splashing upon linoleum. She hisses softly as a sharp, stinging sensation first suffuses her torso then dissolves under the chemical rush of endorphins and alcohol.

Even before she starts to go numb, Ranma lifts the nail-file between nimble fingers, stretches the tweezers a little wider than they were engineered to go, and digs into her belly. Moments later, she is leveraging a mushroomed metal slug to the surface, stretching her abused skin to its limits. Plop! The second bullet pops free with a sanguine spray, and Ranma releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

After a negligent toss, the misshapen bullet lands in the lavatory with a clatter. There, it rinses slowly under the faucet's falling waters. Thin trails of pink sweep across the sink, skirting the edge before swirling inevitably into the dark abyss of modern plumbing. Ranma follows this like something profound, a metaphor for life.

"Ranma, have you seen my watch? I've looked everywhere, and I can't find it," a fretful voice calls from beyond the bathroom door. "You didn't drag it into your room, did you?"

Ranma spins; the world swims; the room reels behind, lagging in time; numb nose, staggering close, stumble, bumble, blunder and bump – she strikes the wall with a resounding thump as dead senses havoc her head and kill her coordination. With some effort, fuzzy eyes focus upon the flimsy wooden barrier between herself and a long set of explanations Ranma would rather never give. Eventually, she manages to vocalize the sum-total of her incoherent thoughts: "Eh?"

"Ranma, what happened?" the voice inquires. "Are you okay?"

_a warm voice, a kind smile... a wet redness_

Ranma's hands twitch. They are bloody. Again.

"Ranma?"

"'m o-kay," Ranma slurs. Blinking, she musters the concentration to communicate clearly, raising her voice and carefully enunciating each word. "I- HAVE- BE-EE-N BUTTER, _NA-A-AY-SAN_. need shumthin'?"

"Butter?" Hermione asks, confused.

Ranma laughs. "Butter makesh it better!"

"... Ranma, what's going on in there?" Hermione demands.

"Um... jus' clean'n up a few shcrapes from lash' night. Nuffin' you need'a worry 'bout." Ranma furrows her brow before adding, "Don' tell _kaasan_, 'kay?"

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Hermione declares. "What were you doing last night?"

_look! look around us! you did this_

"... Shtuff."

"If you won't tell me, then you can tell Mom," Hermione states sternly.

Ranma's eyes are downcast, fixated on the messy floor, the crusted rags, and the torn shirt. She grasps the latter between her toes and sweeps it across the pools of life and spirits that have fallen from her body. Then Ranma slumps against the door and slides to the ground with a thump. "Hey, _neesan..._"

Hermione's tone falls to match her sister's quiet question. "Yes, Ranma?"

"Is it wrong to murder vampires?"

"Well, it's-" the words grind to a halt. "Ranma, did you...?"

"I... _Neesan_, can we talk later? I need to shower."

"You haven't taken your shower yet?" Hermione asks, flipping from friendly to frantic. "What time is it? Where's my watch?!"

"It's in here, _neesan_," Ranma calls, voice edging on playful.

"What are you doing with my watch? Give it to me! No. Wait. Take your shower, _then_ give it to me! It's nine-... oh- It's almost ten, already! Hurry up!"

Ranma hears her sister scurry away.

Still leaning against the door, Ranma resumes her onerous chore. Working with shaky hands in the fading twilight of numbness, she inserts the instrument into the third aperture, just above and to the left of her navel, and slowly pushes upwards until it stops with a click against the buried bullet's hard metal casing... It's deep, tearing up into her liver and swallowing over half the long nail file. It's beyond her reach without better tools.

With a half-grimace, half-sigh, Ranma removes the tool and rises to her feet. She twists on the shower, kicks off her pants, and unwinds the final bandages, revealing two more wounds in her hip and thigh. Ranma steps under the warm water, file in hand. Then _he_ begins to work the bullets free.

**-o1o-**

"So you're really bringing your violin?" Elinore asks. Impulsively, she tugs Ranma into a hug, pressing her child's head against her breasts. "I'm so proud of you."

Ranma blushes lightly, then disentangles herself.

"Be sure to practice a lot!" Elinore enthuses. "I'm sure you can master Dance of the Goblins and Devil's Trill by summer, and I'd love to hear them."

"I'll try, _kaasan_," Ranma utters in a subdued manner before trotting a bit faster to catch up with Gareth and Hermione.

The four Grangers walk as a group through the hustle and bustle that is King's Cross station in the morning. People stop and stare at the caged owl in Hermione's hand, only to be distracted by yet stranger groups rushing by in billowing robes, pushing rattling carts of cauldrons and exotic supplies.

Hermione doesn't notice the extra attention as she scrutinizes her sister. Ranma walks with a slight but well disguised limp and avoids her eyes while conversing reluctantly with Elinore. After her adopted sister came down from the shower, Ranma was unusually quiet, banishing breakfast with a grimace and a gesture. While Mom and Dad were more than a little concerned, they eventually dismissed it as anxiety and apprehension then packed a larger lunch. But Hermione knows better. Whatever plagues Ranma is beyond butterflies. _Is it wrong to murder a vampire?_ What did her sister mean? Did she kill a vampire? If so, when? Is that what she was doing last night? Is that how she earned a limp and 'a few scrapes'? ... Maybe she's making too much of this. Ranma's leaving Kathryn behind; perhaps she just worked herself extra hard last night. Deciding that speculation is getting her nowhere, she glances at her watch and bemoans, "... ten-forty-four. Come on! Let's hurry." She picks up the pace.

Soon, they stand before the pillar between platforms nine and ten that marks an entrance to the wizarding world. Fluttering robes fade into folds of illusion as the final straggler of a wizarding family vanishes into the apparent wall of brick, yet the busy Muggles, who paid so much attention earlier, hardly seem to notice.

"Well, this is where we say goodbye," Elinore sniffles, wiping a tear from her eye. She grabs each of her daughters, pulling Hermione, then Ranma, into a powerful hug. "You'll be back for Christmas, right?" Her question seems more insistent than curious.

"I'll be home," Ranma promises, pulling out of the lingering embrace.

"Well," Hermione putters, avoiding her mother's eyes "- I might be awfully busy."

"Oh," Elinore utters, deflating. "I forgot about your schedule. ... Good luck with that."

Gareth claps a meaty hand on Hermione's shoulder. "If necessary, your studies come first," he says, eyeing Ranma meaningfully. He gives his daughter an affectionate squeeze. "I want you to know that both of you make us very proud. I can never tell my patients enough about my two intelligent, strong-willed, and beautiful daughters."

The man grins at Hermione's abashed blush and Ranma's indomitable smirk, then his expression hardens into something more serious. "However, while I know that each of you, in your own fashion, is capable of looking after yourself, I'll feel far more assured knowing that you are also watching after each other. My experiences over the last two weeks leave me apprehensive about your safety in the wizarding world. At best, their laws are out of date, and their justice system is corrupt. At worst, they are dangerously prejudiced..." his eyes darken "- even their toys. I want both of you to take a moment and ponder what your history books say on the subject." Gareth focuses on his youngest child, ignoring the increasingly antsy motions of Hermione. "Be careful around those girls, Ranma. They've already proven themselves ruthless, and they'll have an upper hand in any encounter. It will be best if you just avoid them."

"I love you too, Dad, but we'll have to take our moment to ponder later," Hermione cuts in as her father formulates where to next take his speech. "We'll be careful. I love you. We'll write." Hermione jerks Ranma through the wall as she finishes her last words.

Their mother yelling "Write often!" is the last thing they hear before they burst onto Platform 9¾.

Hermione drags Ranma through a sea of milling students, occasionally standing on her toes, searching about, while trying to hold her caged owl steady. Behind her, Ranma's eyes dart in every direction, and she cringes, pulling closer to her sister. They pass pairs of parents prattling politely as their children crowd into the crimson cars of the Hogwarts Express. Then Hermione lurches to an abrupt halt and gasps in pain as Ranma's hand tightens around her own and ceases to follow.

"Owww..." Hermione complains, stabilizing her disgruntled owl and turning to face her sister. "What now, Ranma?" She pauses as she marks the direction of Ranma's gaze. "Oh, that," she utters, exasperated. "Get over it, Ranma. They're just cats. Honestly, they should be scared of you, not the other way around."

Ranma tears her eyes away from their current target and scowls at her sister.

Hermione shakes her hand free of her sister's then stands on her toes once again, vainly attempting to see over the heads of older students. "Where are they?" she frets.

"Where's who?" Ranma asks. A sly smile stretches slowly across her face. "You aren't looking for your _boyfriends_, are you?"

"Stop that!" Hermione wheels on her sister. "You're going to start rumors."

"Did you hear that, brother mine?" a new voice asks as a tall, lightly freckled redhead appears from the congestion near the train.

A second redhead, identical to the first, joins him. "Indeed, I did. 'Boyfriends', with a plural."

"How interesting," the other ponders. "I wonder, who might they be?"

As an embarrassed Hermione musters a response, both boys turn simultaneously in time to see Harry, accompanied by another scrawny redhead, pushing through the jam-packed platform.

"Ickle Ronniekins, you never told us!" one of the twins exclaims.

The other winks. "... and Harry, you sly dog. To think you'd be the type to share..."

Ron frowns at his older brothers. "What are you gits blathering about?"

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with us."

"That's quite enough from you," Hermione chides, glaring at each of the twins in turn and not sparing her smirking sister. She then addresses Harry and Ron. "When did you arrive? I've been looking all over for you."

"Not long ago," Ron answers. "The Ministry lent us some cars... Hey, is that an owl?"

"Of course it is." Hermione lifts the caged chestnut owl ahead of her, and gazes at it fondly. "His name is Awelon. Isn't he _gorgeous?_" she says, glowing.

Ron looks thoroughly disgusted. "You named your owl _Owl'n?_"

Ranma snickers.

"Au-ell-on, Awelon," Hermione corrects, flashing fierce eyes at her sister.

Ron looks at Hermione as if she's crazy. "That's what I said."

"It's Welsh! It means breeze!" Hermione exclaims, feeling supremely frustrated.

"Whatever," Ron dismisses. Then his eyes brighten considerably. "Hey! You'll never guess what Harry bought at Diagon Alley."

"A wicked-cool trunk, a Firebolt, and a secret?" Ranma quips, interjecting herself into the conversation.

"Who are you?" Ron questions, suddenly staring suspiciously at the short, blue-eyed, redheaded, Asian girl. "Go away, firstie!"

Hermione drops her head into her free hand as though nursing a headache.

"So, Harry, am I right?" Ranma asks. "Did that broom steal your wallet, too?"

The lanky, black-haired boy looks uncomfortable at the attention, especially as several parents in the crowd turn to face him, eyes locking on to his jagged scar.

"Do you know this girl?" Ron demands of Harry.

"She's my sister," Hermione states. Her hand drops away from her face.

"No way!" Ron exclaims. "She doesn't look like you at all!"

"She's adopted," Harry offers. "And Hermione _did_ tell us about her."

"I know that," Ron mumbles, his ears turning pink. Then he throws an accusatory glare at Hermione. "I thought you said she was a Muggle."

"I said she wasn't a witch."

"Are you daft?" Ron asks, staring in disbelief. "If she's not a Muggle, she's a witch. What else could she possibly be?"

"A goddess," Ranma proposes. She bestows upon him a beneficent smile. "You may start groveling now."

Hermione scowls at her sister and is searching for an appropriate reply when three more redheads break through the crowd – a tall, balding man in glasses accompanied by his short, plump wife and young daughter.

"Hey, there. Have you seen the twins?" the man asks.

Hermione glances about, but neither of the twins is in sight.

"They took off a few minutes ago," Harry answers, pointing in a vague direction.

"Those boys will be the death of me, yet," the mother of many redheads sighs. Donning a stern visage, she gathers her skirt and marches in the direction denoted by Harry.

The man remains with his daughter as he watches his wife thrust through the throng. Then he turns to the children. His eyes widen as they meet Ranma's. "Ah, you must be Red Granger! I haven't seen you since the asylum. I see you qualified as a witch... not that _I_ had any doubt. It takes a lot of power to haunt a whole ward enough to vacate it!" He pauses, not noticing Ranma's intense glare. "Oh, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Arthur Weasley, and this is my daughter, Ginny. I see you've already met Ron. Are you looking forward to your first year at Hogwarts?"

"I _was_," Ranma answers sourly, folding her arms across her chest and still staring at the man as though he's a bug to be squashed. "And my name is _Ranma_ Granger."

"I... see," Arthur responds, drawing back. He stares at her a second, wetting his lips and searching nervously for a response. "Sorry about that." He turns away. "Say, Harry, would you come with me for a minute?" he asks, jerking his head towards a pillar.

Harry and Arthur shuffle away, conversing in low tones; after a final, quick glance back at Ranma, they disappear into the crowd.

The four children left behind share an awkward moment in which Ranma's hard, steel-blue eyes scrutinize Ron and Ginny, whose bodies and expressions reveal disquiet.

"I'm leaving," Ranma declares abruptly before spinning on her heel and heading for the train.

Hermione watches her leave with a pensive expression.

"You never told us your sister is crazy," Ron says the moment Ranma is out of view.

"She isn't crazy," Hermione responds, subdued.

Ron snorts. "She isn't a witch either, right?" he replies, sarcastically. "You heard my dad. They wouldn't even put _crazy_ people next to her. And did you see the way she _stared_ at him? It's not natural." He pauses, then adds, "Could she be possessed by You-Know-Who? It happened to _my_ sister in _her_ first- Owww!"

"Hey!" Ginny objects, withdrawing her toes from her brother's shin. "Why do you always have to be such a git, Ron?"

"What's _your_ problem?" Ron demands, glaring at her.

Ginny's response is blasted away by the ear-splitting tones of the train's powerful whistle. Huge, billowing clouds of steam rise from the scarlet engine, and frenzied guards begin rushing about, calling for everyone to board.

"We need to go!" Hermione shouts, making herself heard over the rising noise on the platform.

"What about Harry?" Ginny protests.

"He'll make it," Ron replies, grabbing his sister roughly.

The group scrambles to the nearest car, ignoring the indignant squawks of Awelon. They press up into a narrow stairwell, and a guard promptly slams the door shut behind them. Thump. Thump. The train begins to move.

"Ron!" Ginny protests as her brother shoves her further inside.

"Give me room," Ron roars back with a final shove. He throws the portal open anew and dangles dangerously from the train's interior, stretching an arm towards Harry.

Outside, Harry is rushing to catch up, dodging between parents and shoving past the platform guards. Right as he reaches the end of the platform, he catches Ron's hand and throws himself towards the car. With a great heave Ron hauls Harry inside.

Finally aboard, Harry half collapses and wheezes as he catches his breath.

"Cutting it rather close there, Harry," Ron laughs, jovially thumping Harry on the back.

Harry gives his friend a wry grin.

Hermione purses her lips slightly, then asks, "So, what did Mr. Weasley find so urgent that he made it his responsibility to hold you until the train was moving?"

"I'll tell you later," Harry states, standing upright, breath recovered.

"Hurry up," Ron commands, cutting short any possible conversation. "All the good compartments are already taken, and I don't want to be stuck with a bunch of firsties." Words spoken, Ron shoves past Hermione and into the main corridor, paying no attention as he bumps Awelon's cage.

Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! Awelon's incensed cries become a raucous tumult as it flaps and recovers balance in its rattled cage. As it settles on its perch, it turns its head over one-hundred-twenty degrees, following Ron with a half-lidded, black-eyed gaze.

"Watch where you're going," Hermione snaps. Then she turns her attention to her owl, cooing, "Don't worry, Awelon. I won't let the bad man hurt you."

"Merlin, Ron, don't you pay attention to _anything?_" Ginny asks.

"Whatever. There might be compartments left in the back." Ron immediately steps into the next car.

The others follow.

The corridor is narrow, and they are forced to shove past the occasional students who are loitering about or searching for friends. Boisterous laughter and the occasional yell spill from the compartments. Old windows set high in sliding doors reveal a group of Ravenclaws studying diligently, awkward first-year introductions, Slytherins scheming, and sixth-years snogging. Hermione gazes briefly through each, hoping to catch sight of her sister's smug grin.

She doesn't find it. Instead, as they step into the sixth carriage, she hears a familiar, supercilious voice censuring some students through an open door.

"- you'll find the consequences of such disrespect far more inconvenient, this year." A sharp-featured boy with white-blond hair glares into an open compartment, framed on either side by boys that best resemble burly bookends. A quiet tap on the shoulder gains the blond's attention, and he turns towards Harry. "Ah, Potty... just the person I wanted to see," he sneers while closing the door.

"Get out of the way, Malfoy!" Harry growls.

The boy ignores him, strolling to the center of the corridor. "I hear you are finally putting your dead father's fortune to good use," the boy drawls. As he speaks, he critically eyes Harry's attire, making theatre of his disgust. "But I see you cannot just purchase a sense of fashion. I can only think that you're wearing those rags because you like them."

"At least Harry doesn't spend all his time flipping through witches weekly and talking to a magic mirror," Ginny retorts.

Malfoy's gray eyes flare slightly, then he adjusts the collar of his silver-trimmed school robes. "I'll have you know that these robes were tailored by Twillfit himself. Where did you get _your_ robes, Miss Weasel? ... a second-hand robe shop, perhaps?" He smirks as Ginny fumes, savoring her answering silence before turning back towards Harry. "So, is it true what they're saying, Potter? That you bought a Firebolt because you're scared that you cannot win without a superior broom?"

"You weren't so hot on your Nimbus 2001!" Ron counters loudly, stepping forward. "Harry could beat _you_ on a Shooting Star."

Malfoy looks at Ron as though noticing him for the first time. "You'd know all about Shooting Stars, wouldn't you, Weasley? They're the best your family can afford. Maybe if your father hadn't frittered away all his winnings on a wasted trip to Egypt, you could get something better." He smirks as Ron's ears turn red. "It's no surprise that you Weasels are so poor when you so eagerly throw away what little money you manage to acquire."

"**Mucuscorusca!**" A brilliant lance of yellow flashes over Malfoy as Ginny shoves past Harry. Ron also surges forward, but finds himself checked from behind. In an instant, wands are raised on both sides.

Harry gently grips Ginny's wand arm, preventing the furious girl from throwing another spell, while a surprised Hermione releases Ron from a two-point wrist lock.

"I warned you, Malfoy," Harry says.

"Let me go," Ginny shouts, wrenching her hand free.

"What's the matter, Potter? Can't keep your coterie under control?" Malfoy jeers. With a swagger, he makes a show of returning his wand to his robes. "Go ahead and do it, Potter. I've heard some interesting stories this summer regarding you, your aunt, your mudblood girlfriend, and her sister." The blond boy's lip curls, his icy-gray eyes flit to Hermione, then he once again focuses on Harry. He sneers profoundly. "_I_ can take _you_ to _court_. We aren't even at school yet. You _do_ know what the penalty for underage sorcery is, don't you?" he laughs. "How could you not? You're already on thin ice, Potter. If I'm lucky, you'll be expelled. ... But I'll settle for merely delivering a massive fine to you Weasels."

Ron and Ginny glower, but make no further motions to attack.

"No takers?" Malfoy smirks. "More's the pity."

"You know..." Hermione posits, stroking her chin and making a show of being thoughtful, "The Hogwarts Express is part of Hogwarts property, thus actions within its confines could be considered performed within the bounds of the school, and, therefore, subject to the Headmaster's authority. Hence, we'd likely get off with no more than a few detentions."

Ron's face adopts a huge, gleeful expression. "Good enough for me," he declares, pulling out his wand.

Malfoy briefly appears panicked, then he schools his features and turns a contemptuous expression on Hermione. "Don't be ridiculous, Granger," he scoffs. "This train hardly qualifies as a supervised learning environment."

"... More's the pity," Hermione replies, sounding slightly disappointed. Saying no more, she steps past him, disdainfully directing a gorilla-goon aside with a single, feminine finger.

The others file behind.

"That was brilliant, Hermione!" Ron laughs the moment they enter the next car. "Did you see the expression on his face? I think he nearly wet himself! And the way you pushed Goyle away, afterwards..." He halts abruptly, closes his eyes, and grins at the ceiling.

"What are you doing, Ron?" Ginny inquires wryly.

Ron opens one eye. "I'm committing it to memory," he chuckles, closing his eye again. "I'll cherish it forever."

Ginny laughs lightly, then sees that Harry and Hermione have continued down the corridor. She frowns as, together, the two enter the next car. "Come on," she grunts, grabbing her brother's wrist and pulling him behind her.

The procession continues until the end of the train brings them to an abrupt halt.

"This is probably the best we'll find," Harry says, opening the door to the very last compartment.

Inside is a single occupant – a sickly man in shabby robes, fast asleep by the window. The four children stare at him for a few seconds before entering.

"Who d'you reckon he is?" Ron asks, flopping into the seat furthest from the stranger.

"Professor R. J. Lupin," Hermione answers softly, waving at a battered suitcase on the luggage rack as she places Awelon's cage beside it. "We should keep our voices down."

"A replacement DADA teacher?" Harry quips. "I wonder how this one will try killing me."

"Harry!" Hermione hisses. "Not all our professors are that bad."

"Nope," Ron chuckles quietly. "Just the DADA teachers and Snape. We should check his head while we have the chance."

Hermione glowers. "Don't even think about it."

Ron waves his hands in front of him. "Just joking, Hermione." Then he bends his wrist and twists his arm experimentally. "So, how did you do that arm grab thing, anyway?"

Hermione sighs, taking a seat. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "Ranma used it on me whenever she got tired of an exhibit. I must have picked it up."

Harry nods knowingly. "Sounds familiar."

"You have no idea." Hermione cringes. "The whole summer was one long nightmare."

Ginny leans forward, looking curious. "Tell us about it."

"Where should I even begin?" Hermione sighs. "I suppose the nightmare started the moment I stepped off the platform. My sister was there, eager to tell me that _she_ took her GCSEs and remind me that I'd _never_ earn mine – that I'd _always_ have a hole in my education. And she wouldn't let me forget it... all summer. She even brought it up over dinner a few times, just so my parents could heap praises upon her in front of me." Hermione is growling towards the end.

Harry's eyes widen. "She already took her GCSEs?!"

"Just in math and science," Hermione grumbles.

"What are GCSEs?" Ginny asks, eyes dancing from one to the other.

Harry glances at Hermione expectantly, but finds her looking disgruntled and irritable. When it becomes obvious she is unwilling to elaborate, he fields the explanation instead. "The GCSEs are the General Certificates of Secondary Education," he says. He glances from one blank stare to another, then tries again. "They are sort of like... Muggle OWLs. A first year having GCSEs in math and science is like having OWLs in potions and transfiguration... _before_ entering Hogwarts."

"You're kidding!" Ron shouts, bouncing out of his seat. He grimaces and holds his breath, then sits back down when the professor doesn't stir. Finally, he stares incredulously at Hermione before whispering, "And you _want_ to take them?"

Hermione huffs. "A simple-minded man like you would _never_ understand."

"You got that right," Ron snorts. "So what happened next?"

"Well, my parents had planned for a couple years now that we would vacation in France for their 15th anniversary. So, I took it upon myself to brush up on my French, which I hadn't practiced since Muggle primary school. It took me a week of vocabulary review before I reached my old level. Ranma, however, spent the whole time goofing off with her friends, and refused to even _try_ practicing with the rest of us... and she's never even taken a French class.

"Then, when we arrived at France, in addition to being an obnoxious brat, Ranma was suddenly able to speak _perfect_ French, right down to the accent!" Hermione scowls at the memory. "I'm sure it's some form of _tongues_, like your _parseltongue_ ability, Harry. And while I admit to being more than a little envious, what _really_ annoyed me is that she refused to translate for us!"

"_Tongues?_", Ron asks. "You mean like that freaky, African guy with all those weird piercings we met in Egypt?"

"That's rude, Ron," Ginny says, looking cross. "Can't you be more respectful of other people's cultures? And he was from South America, not Africa."

"Same difference," Ron rolls his eyes. "And what are you going on about now? You were the one telling me how you were creeped out by all those needles and- Owww!"

Ginny lifts her heel off Ron's foot.

"Will you stop doing that!" Ron shouts.

"Quiet!" Hermione hisses, glancing at the professor. The man twitches a little, and Hermione waits until he's breathing regularly again. "So what do you know about tongues? I was going to research it when I got back to school."

Ginny glances at Ron, who shrugs. "Well...," Ginny begins, sounding unsure. "It's extremely rare, and almost unheard of in Europe. Gringotts hires people with tongues to help with difficult translations. Bill told me there are some texts that only people with tongues can read."

"It can let you talk, too," Ron cuts in. "That guy spoke perfect English, with no accent."

"No, Ron. He spoke _our_ accent."

Ron ignores his sister. "Fred and George started making up languages. He could understand them, but he replied in English. They did manage to fool him up before Mum put a stop to it: they asked him over dinner if he'd liked to eat Ginny's brains, and he said 'yes'."

Ginny shudders. "I'm not sure he was kidding, Ron. He looked right at me when he said that."

Ron grins. "Fred and George say he doesn't know a word of English. To him, it supposedly sounded like, 'Do you enjoy this meal that our brainy sister helped make?'"

"They never told _me_ that!"

"Of course not. That was the whole point."

Ginny fumes.

For a moment the compartment is steeped in silence broken only by a light cough from the sleeping professor.

"I rather expected that _tongues_ grants the ability to speak and understand other languages," Hermione says carefully. "Can you tell me anything else? maybe how your brothers-"

"Since when have my brothers told me how they do _anything_?" Ron gruffs.

Ginny smirks at her brother.

Ron rolls his eyes. "Oh, like _you_ know anything."

"Actually, I do," Ginny states proudly. "Bill came to my room and told _me_ a story while you were asleep."

Ron snorts. "I'll bet that's because you couldn't sleep."

Hermione glares at Ron, then inquires of Ginny, "What do you know?"

"Well, I can't remember the whole thing..."

"That's okay. Just tell me what you know."

Ginny glances at Harry, who simply gazes at her in return.

"Well, I suppose, but it might sound a bit silly," Ginny demurs. She takes a deep breath. "Thousands of years ago, things were different than they are today. Reading and writing were uncommon except among scholars and wizards. To study anything at all you needed to learn seven languages -- books were rare, and translations were rarer. Even the written languages were primitive and crude, lacking punctuation, spaces, and other such niceties... and they often varied from city to city. All of this made _tongues_ highly coveted. Muggleborns with the ability were sought, apprenticed, and married into powerful wizarding families. Eventually, tongues became a definitive trait of high-class wizards.

"In fact, it became common for high-class families to hide their secrets in part by writing in a manner that requires tongues to read. You see, tongues allows one to understand or communicate _meaning_, whether it be through speech or scrawl. So long as the _meaning_ was imbued, no matter how obscure or nonsensical the babble, it can be understood by a person with tongues." She casts a victorious grin towards Ron, then glances again at Harry.

"So that's how you believe your brothers did it?" Hermione asks.

"Well, Bill did go on talk about how double-blind scribes, certain potions, and other stuff can defeat tongues." She pauses in realization then scowls into her own lap.

"It sounds like Bill is a very good brother," Hermione says.

"He should have been more direct," Ginny grumbles.

Ron cracks up. "You mean-" he crows through convulsive fits of laughter. "You mean he told you that night and you didn't get it until _just now_?"

"Shut up, Ron!" Ginny snaps.

"So, do you think she'd understand parseltongue?" Harry ventures.

Ginny frowns at Harry, curiously. "Well, Bill believes that parseltongue was created to hide secrets from people with tongues."

"_Please_ don't tell me you're planning on having a conversation with her in parseltongue," Ron says, sounding thoroughly disgusted.

"Well, I think that would be _fascinating_," Hermione retorts. "But I'm not yet confident that my sister has tongues. I know she speaks native Japanese, and that she spoke perfect French. However, it's entirely possible that she's multi-lingual. She did struggle with literacy in English, but almost everything in the Muggle world is written by machine. And Ranma really doesn't remember much from before..." she trails off.

"The accident?" Harry prompts.

Hermione presses her lips together, refusing to answer.

"In Diagon Alley, you mentioned a 'freakish accident'," Harry reminds her. "What happened?"

Hermione glowers at Harry for a minute, then sighs. "If you want to know the whole story, you'll probably have to become an unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries. But I suppose I can tell you if you promise to not tell _anyone_, especially Ranma."

Ginny frowns. "Hasn't she been told?" she asks.

"Of course she has," Hermione snorts. "But she'd kill me if she ever learns I told _you_ about it. So, do I have your word?"

She awaits their nods of agreement and checks the dormant professor before continuing.

"Four years ago, a battle collapsed the London Underground. The Muggle newspapers reported it as a massive gas explosion, but a report from the Ministry indicated there was powerful dark magic involved. I don't know much else except that forty-one people died, many of wounds unidentifiable by either Muggle or Ministry doctors, and that whatever happened was sufficient to grant a Muggle some magical abilities."

"So she's a witch because of dark magic," Ron deadpans. "Isn't that heartwarming. Please tell me she won't be in Gryffindor."

"I can't believe you'd hold that against her, Ron!" Ginny protests. "She's hardly the only one of us exposed to dark magic. Take Harry!"

"Well, _excuse me_ if I don't want to share my house with a crazy girl," Ron rebuffs. "And no offense, mate, but that parselmouth stuff disturbs me."

"None taken," Harry replies. "So which house do you think she'll be in?"

"Well, she must be really smart if she already took those GCSEs," Ginny opines. "So she'll probably end up in Ravenclaw."

Harry nods at the notion, and Ron settles back, complacent.

Hermione scowls at all three of them. "Smart people end up in other houses too, you know."

"Then what do you think?" Ginny asks.

"Slytherin."

Hermione utters the word with complete certainty.

Ron's aspect twists into an visage of horror. "That's even worse! They'll turn her into a Death Eater for sure, if she doesn't become the next Dark Lady."

Harry looks doubtful. "Isn't she Muggle-born? Literally?"

"She speaks tongues," Ron pronounces. "I'm sure they'll make an exception."

"Would you _stop_ talking about my sister as though she's some sort of monster?" Hermione demands, glaring daggers at Ron. "And not all Slytherins are evil."

"Maybe not when they're first sorted," Ron grants generously. "But House Slytherin is evil-training camp for wizards. She won't last a week."

"My sister is _not_ going to end up a Death Eater!" Hermione yells. "And she isn't going to become a Dark...-" she blushes momentarily, then scowls furiously. "This entire discussion is _absurd!_"

"Hermione," Harry hisses, nodding at the reposed professor.

The children watch, not daring to breathe, as Lupin groans and stirs then continues to lie still.

"He sleeps deeper than you do, Ron," observes Ginny.

"He looks sick," Hermione whispers, surveying the man with her benevolent brown eyes. "I hope he's alright."

"I just hope he's not contagious," Ron grunts, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.

"Quiet," Harry commands, instantly capturing the attention of his friends. "There's something I need to tell you." He frowns thoughtfully at Ginny and glances once more at the inert professor. Then he continues, "It's about Sirius Black. I think he's after me..."

**-o2o-**

Schruff! A tiny white hand opens the sliding door, and a petite redhead steps through. Her eyes dart about the compartment before finally settling on the only occupant – a girl with straggly, waist length, dirty-blond hair, hidden behind a magazine.

"You don't have a cat, do you?" Ranma demands.

The girl lowers the magazine and gazes over the top of it with protuberant eyes. After a minute, she shakes her head. "I had a cat once, but I believe it was eaten by garden gnomes. You have to be careful around those gnomes. They pretend to be herbivores, but they are really quite vicious."

Ranma blinks, briefly imagining several small, ceramic men in tall, pointy hats chewing viciously at a dead cat. "Heh," she expels a half-laugh, her lips curving into a smile. "Good for them." She closes the door behind her.

The blond girl stares hard at Ranma for a few seconds before responding. "It wasn't, really. The cat was quite ill when I found it. I'm sure many of the gnomes sickened and died."

Ranma ignores the girl and begins the arduous effort of removing Hermione's trunk from her pocket. When she finishes, she hoists the massive chest into the luggage rack overhead.

As she settles back into her seat, her leg throbs an agonizing beat.

Hungry, grumpy, and in pain -- Ranma hadn't been able to nibble more than a bit for breakfast, and even that had threatened to come back up. Hermione's scrutiny hadn't helped her nerves; while her sister hadn't told _tousan_ or _kaasan_ anything, she had seen through Ranma's disguise and treated her with troubled eyes all morning. _Is it wrong to murder vampires?_ Ranma isn't looking forward to sorting out _that_ slip-up. It's far too late for such questions, anyway.

She turns her eyes to the almost-acquaintance sitting across from her. From this angle, Ranma can see the blond more clearly – wand tucked behind one ear; a complete set of earrings, necklace, and bracelets crafted of colored tabs from canned soda; and wide, unblinking eyes again utterly focused on an article. The cover of _The Quibbler_ is cluttered with headlines straight from a Muggle tabloid: "Hostile Action by Underground Goblin Ninjas! – what Gringotts is doing with our money", "Legendary Lost Boy Strikes Again! – a dragon sanctuary in ruins", "Garden Gnome Conspiracy! – Are our children safe?" ...-

Ranma's attention is drawn from the magazine when the compartment door slides open.

Standing in the corridor, dressed in black – knee-high platform boots exposing an expanse of smooth, ivory legs that run under a flared velvet skirt laced into a fashionable, satin corset that both shapes an otherwise flat figure and emphasizes a fair face framed by dangling locks of indigo hair and a black Latin cross dangling reversed from each ear – is a young goth. The girl scrutinizes the pair through mascara-laden eyes. "Is this compartment taken, too?" she asks wryly.

"I certainly hope not," the blithe blond answers, peeking over the top of _The Quibbler_. "It would tedious to find a new one."

The goth pulls her trolley into the room. With a precarious, tottering heave, she tosses her luggage into the rack above. "Name's Jacey," she announces, folding the trolley into a corner.

"I'm Luna Lovegood," the blond replies with a friendly smile. "Are you a fan of Saint Peter?"

Jacey raises an eyebrow. "Huh?" She slumps into a seat near the window and lifts her purse into her lap; she fishes into the pouch with purple-painted nails.

"The reversed cross is a sign of Saint Peter," Luna states matter-of-factly. "I read he hung himself upside down to cure hiccups."

"Heh," Jacey snorts, pulling a pack of Lambert & Butlers from her purse. "Tell me another." She hangs a cigarette between her lips, lights it efficiently, then takes a deep drag. "You mind?" she exhales.

"Kehe! Kehe!" Luna coughs and clambers away, fleeing the smoke. "I hear those things will turn your lungs black!"

"Good. Black is my favorite color." Jacey stands and yanks open the window, then turns her attention to the drooping redhead. "So, who's the shrimp?"

Ranma emits a smoldering, half-lidded glare.

"She hasn't told me her name," the blond answers. "But I think she doesn't like cats."

Jacey's eyes linger on Ranma for a moment, then she turns away, blowing a stream of carcinogenic smoke into the clean, Hertfordshire air as the train rumbles northward. "I love the necklace," the goth girl remarks, glancing back at Luna.

"Really?" Luna absently fingers her soda-tab necklace. "This summer my father took me to a Muggle park and I found these lying everywhere. It's the first time I've seen an outbreak of ferrous worms. My father wrote a long article about the ministry's failure at keeping them contained."

"Ferrous worms?" Jacey raises a brow.

"Yes," Luna answers with a nod. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of uncolored, gray soda-tabs, displaying them to Jacey. "Ferrous worms are made out of living metal. When they die, they always curl up into a figure-eight. You'd be surprised how many people don't believe they exist."

"Uh... yeah," Jacey drawls. "So, you have enough there to make a choker?"

Luna readily agrees. The two girls continue to chat, their idle banter becoming an inane drone. Ranma, left well alone, sinks further into her seat. Her eyes side closed, her heavy head lolls, and the red car rolls over jointed track. Ranma listens languidly. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Blurry fluorescent lights shine overhead as Ranma is pushed down the dim corridor. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Wheels clatter across tiled floor. She stirs sickly, her breath fogging the mask that covers her nose and mouth. She attempts to tear it away, but she cannot; her limbs are bound, and her arms only twitch weakly.

"Ack! She just bloody moved!"

"The catalepsy is lifting. She must be catabolizing the sedative."

Ranma panics, strains, and turns her head to either side, somehow knowing what she'll see. She's on a moving platform, a gurney, surrounded by three cats in white lab-coats, each standing tall as a man. Brown, purple, and white, they stare down at her with faces hidden behind surgical masks and instruments of pain in their hands.

Her breath quickens, becoming shallow.

"Better up the bloody dose," the brown cat says. "If she wakes up now, it'll be an effin' catastrophe." He twists a small, hissing dial and brackish, fetid wisps fill the mask then invade her mouth and nostrils.

"Careful!" the purple cat warns, halting the other's hand. "Too much and she might get cataracts."

The brown cat scowls. "I don't bloody care as long as she's catatonic."

"Catlin!" the white cat demands suddenly, holding out a clawed paw.

The purple cat quickly procures and delivers a long, thin, double-edged knife.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Using a double-handed, overhead grip, the white cat quickly pounds three holes into the left side of Ranma's gut. Long jets of blood spew forth from the wounds, fanning out in an artistic fountain.

"Catheter!" the white cat snaps, embedding the catlin into Ranma's hip and leaving it there. It once again stretches a paw out expectantly.

The purple cat places a long, plastic tube into the clawed fingers of the albino.

The brown cat waves an open hamburger under the cascading blood. After the red substance collects thick on the burger, he plops a bun on top and takes a hearty bite. He nods in appreciation. "This shit is categorically the best bloody catsup I've ever had!"

"Shut it," hisses the purple cat. "You'll interrupt his cathexis."

"That'd be a catachresis. You _must_ mean concentration," the white cat comments, roughly shoving great lengths of plastic into Ranma's belly. The tube twists and rolls, poking out of another catlin-inflicted wound, usurping the geyser of blood; it flops about like a hose under pressure, spraying everyone. Calmly, the sanguine albino grabs the tube and thrusts it into the third hole. Continuing to push even greater lengths of plastic into her body, he asks, "What's next?"

The purple cat thumbs through a thick document. "According to the catalog," he announces, "we do the CAT scan."

"Well, let's get that old piece of shit bloody running, then," the brown cat commands around a mouthful of hamburger.

The three cats converge on a large machine best characterized by its sharp blades, jagged spikes, and an enormous cat's eye mounted upon a jointed arm.

Ranma panics, struggling to escape the growing nightmare. Desperate fingers find a hidden lever. She grabs at it like a life line. Whoof! The gurney bucks, catapulting her through the ceiling and into a sea of black.

Whump! Ranma's back impacts concrete floor, driving the air from her lungs. Around her are chairs, tables, and booths. Colored lights mounted overhead are unable to drive back the darkness.

After Ranma scrambles to her feet, a warm hand settles on her shoulder. She turns.

It's Kathryn – Kathryn, with her short, sandy-blond hair, her gentle, blue eyes, and her wide, genuine smile.

"Are you okay?" Kathryn asks.

Her tone is soft, concerned, compassionate.

Ranma's mouth dries. She is unable to answer. Her body freezes. She is unable to move. Dread fills her. She knows. She knows what happens next.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Flying metal death tears through a wooden table and into the girl with sandy-blond hair and gentle, blue eyes. Kathryn slumps forward, into Ranma.

Ranma's hands tremble, then, slowly, she embraces the girl.

_blood... is on your hands_

Thick blood drips, crimson and sticky, from her fingers. She feels its warmth – the warmth of something living. She smells its odor – a souring, metallic scent to which she had become unfortunately accustomed. As she watches blood drip from her palms, her gorge rises, her throat clenches, and her stomach twists in revulsion.

_her blood... is on your hands_

Kathryn lies in a pool of blood and broken glass, half illuminated by a flickering street lamp. Her left leg is shorn above the knee and tossed aside as refuse. Her left eye dangles on stretched nerves, torn from the socket.

Watching cruelly from the rooftops above is an echo of herself, savoring a golden apple.

She stares, frozen and horrified.

_our blood... is on your hands_

A man clasping at his own neck glares up at her accusingly as blood pours between his fingers. The burly vampire blinks at her stupidly, paying no attention to the wooden stake in his chest. The pierced boy lies in a pile of his broken bones, glowering at her with glowing red eyes. A chubby child is sprawled across the asphalt, his jaw shattered and neck bent at an impossible angle. The montage of death is joined by several more unidentifiable bodies, scattered about the street.

_you did this! you did this! isn't it magnificent?_

Ranma totters, falters, feeling faint. She stumbles, knees buckle, and she collapses onto a wooden bench. In front of her lies a single set of railroad tracks, stretching into the darkness on either side. A glowing _London Underground_ roundel looms above her, casting everything in shades of red and blue. Screee - Thung! Thung! - eee-eech! Thung! A torn, gashed, dented and decrepit train slides to a stop. With a shrill, metal scream, doors slide open. Forty-one decomposing corpses flop from the apertures and fall from shattered windows and torn metal portals like maggots from rotting meat.

"Is this who you are?" a scornful, baritone voice laughs from the shadows. "Is this the reality you choose?"

Forty-one faceless corpses twitch as one; each cranes its neck to stare at her with milky eyes in ungainly disarray. And, as one, they creep, crawl, and clamber towards her. She tries to stand but clammy hands grab her ankles. She looks down and sees the burly boy and the pierced boy prostrate in supplication with hands on each of her legs. Icy metal presses on her brow, and she sees the chubby boy placing a tiara. A ponderous weight settles on her shoulders – a cloak fit for a queen, placed by a handsome man with a bleeding neck and bloody hand. It drags her like an anchor into her seat – a throne of desiccated bone. Finally, the forty-one faceless corpses reach her. They lift the chair into the air, a growing tower of gangrenous flesh.

The unliving mound twists and rotates, allowing Ranma to survey the city. Blood flows like rivers through the streets. Gunshots, screams, and shouts occasionally penetrate the relative silence. Fires blaze over shattered buildings, an inferno casting the night alight and burning the very stars from the sky. Shadows writhe as though alive at the edge of _her_ domain. And, as she gazes upon the London holocaust from her elevated position, she hears a low, groaning chant from the corpses below her: _you did this you did this you did this..._

"No. No, I didn't..." Ranma half-whispers.

"Blind denial is unbecoming of you, Andhera."

Ranma gasps and jolts, escaping the chair. Abruptly, she tears off the tiara and casts it aside. Then she sheds the cloak and rips off the jewelry – rings, bracelets, and precious stones, the full decadence of privileged class. When she stops, all that is left are her Hogwarts robes and a familiar, cold iron amulet.

_run. run, little girl. you wouldn't want to be late for school_

Ranma runs. She runs through frosty snow and amongst the evergreens. She hurtles past stacked boulders and leaps a half-frozen stream. She dashes between beautiful formations of crystal, and darts under dangling ropes of ivy. She shreds through a thicket of shrubs, and explodes into an open meadow.

Her headlong rush comes to a halt as she lands on soft, green grass. The urge to run evanesces like a warm breath to a cold breeze. She feels calm, safe... serene.

The meadow is a moonlit garden in eternal spring, denying the icy winter that besieges its borders. A great stone circle marks the boundary -- twenty-seven precisely cut, waist-high stelae, each bearing vague inscriptions that blur under Ranma's scrutiny. The clearing itself is vast, almost thirty meters in diameter, covered mostly in grass and clover. Dominating the garden, a trio of ash twines together, forming one monolithic tree – thick, gnarled, and rising above the surrounding forest. Dew is cast in silver hue by the half-moon overhead, shining from the leaves and branches. At the base of the ash, a wide, stone terrace wreathes the trunk – nine sides and sigil-inscribed much like the surrounding stelae.

Ranma begins to approach for a closer look.

Suddenly, an icy gust blasts through the meadow, carrying a cold, wet spray across her face.

Ranma tightens her robes and rubs her arms against a growing chill, to no avail; falling, frigid drizzle nips at her skin, and howling, gelid winds cut through her garments.

... And a window rattles.

"Effin' thing is stuck!" a surly voice grunts.

Ranma groans, opening her eyes.

Wind and water hammer the train furiously, and Jacey stands by the compartment window, struggling valiantly to close it. She mutters frustrations under her breath, and what little Ranma hears over the howling isn't fit for repeating anywhere near her parents. The girl's efforts are stalled by a stubborn latch and the occasional sputtering blast from the irate climate. "Blasted thing, guddammit, close already!"

Wordlessly, Ranma rolls forward and shuts the portal. Yawning, she falls back to her seat and gazes at the girls.

Soda-tabs are scattered across the seats and floor. Short, colored chains crafted of the aluminum tabs wind across Luna's lap and a hard-cover textbook she's utilizing as a makeshift workbench. The blond taps them with her wand and causing two ends of a glossy, violet chain to clasp about her wrist, forming tacky yet passable jewelry. Tucking her wand behind her ear, Luna returns Ranma's vacant stare with one of her own, prompting the smaller girl to look away.

Jacey finally settles shakily back into her seat. "Thanks," she grunts, her shadowed eyes settling briefly on the girl who helped her. Her neck cranes to stare through sheets of rain running down the window and into the roiling darkness beyond. Dew drips from wet tresses, rolling down her ivory neck and over a pearlescent black soda-tab choker. She rubs her arms, attempting to instill into them the warmth that the cold spray has stolen. Her calves tense with each bump or blast.

For a few minutes, there's an eerie stillness, somehow unbroken by the howling winds, the rattling lamp, violent rain or creaking train. Ranma wonders if she's still dreaming.

"The snack lady came while you were asleep," Luna says suddenly. "But I saved a little of my meal. It's yours, if you like." Luna smiles and extends her arm with the offering.

Ranma gazes at it, at first not quite comprehending the offer, not quite hearing Luna's words. It... is an apple -- a yellow apple, with little green freckles -- in the hand of a child. Ranma's chest tightens, her breath shortens, and her eyes narrow, focused on the the rotund fruit. It shines golden, almost glows, under the rocking lamplight. "No," Ranma whispers, almost imperceptibly. The word rasps dry in her throat. Knowing she wasn't heard, Ranma shakes her head and shoves the offending item away.

Luna blinks. "Are you sure? I hear an apple a day keeps the snorkel-backed frooglebies away."

"The doctor," Jacey corrects automatically. Her eyes remain fixated on the window, and her slender fingers slowly crunch a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes, relaxing then squeezing again in methodic rhythm. The one remaining cigarette somehow survives this abuse, tumbling around in the open corner of the pack.

"The doctor? You mean the muggle healers?" Luna inquires. "How interesting. I didn't know they had an aversion to fruit."

"..." Jacey scrutinizes the blond for any hints of sarcasm. Then her grip relaxes around the crumpled pack of Lambert & Butlers as she focuses on the redhead. "Speakin' of doctors, you don't look so hot. You gonna make it?"

Ranma scowls at the girl. "I'm not going to die if that's what you're askin'."

"Oh, so you do talk!" Jacey teases. "But, seriously, you feelin' alright?"

Ranma snorts. "I _feel_ like I've been shot in the gut three times and one of the bullets is still inside me."

"That bad, eh?" Jacey nods sympathetically. "My sister gets it real nasty, too. If you ever need to borrow, just ask. I've got plenty of extras... haven't even started, yet."

Ranma raises a brow at the goth, but doesn't say anything.

"Shot?" Luna asks, suddenly appearing excited. "Isn't that what you call it when someone curses you with a Muggle wand?"

Jacey places a hand over her face and brow in obvious exasperation.

"A Muggle... wand..." Ranma drawls.

"Yeah. I think you call them 'guns', but that's how my father explains them to everyone else," Luna states matter-of-factly. "So what's it feel like? Is it anything like the Reductor curse? ... oh, I suppose you wouldn't know about that. Who shot you, anyway? Was it the Ninja Goblins?"

"Oh, wow. ... how did you guess?"

"Really?" Luna's eyes widen and she looks even more excited. "Are you involved with the illegal transport of African conflict diamonds? Or were you merely a casualty in the hidden war being waged by Gringotts to maintain their monopoly over the world diamond trade?"

Ranma stares at Luna. "What?"

"Luna," Jacey starts, "It's not like the shrimp was _actually_ shot in the gut. It's not something you just get up from."

"I am _not_ a shrimp," Ranma protests.

"Give me a name then... or you'll be stuck with 'shrimp' until you grow out of it."

"I'm Ranma Granger," Ranma states, locking eyes with Jacey. "And I'm not the one who waltzed in here on platforms."

Jacey rolls her eyes and gazes out the window.

"Do you know Hermione Granger?" Luna asks.

"She's my sister."

"Oh." Luna stares at Ranma for a few seconds. "Were you adopted?"

Ranma doesn't answer. Instead, she waves at the short chains of soda-tabs scattered over the bench. "So... just how many of those things are you planning on making?"

"Well, Jacey insisted we make you a whole set and adorn you while you slept," Luna elucidates dreamily. Her dangling soda-tab earrings reflect dim lamplight. "I figured I would use the inicio vestis charm to put the bracelets and the necklace on, but I was having a bit of difficulty remembering a charm to pierce your ears. I suppose diffindo might work, but I'm afraid that might cut them off - your ears, I mean." She adds the last upon seeing Ranma's obviously confused, distraught expression.

Ranma transfers her glower from the blond to Jacey.

"It was a joke," Jacey explains quickly.

Luna blinks twice. "Really? I suppose that makes sense. It was an awfully strange request."

"It had better be a joke," Ranma grumbles. "Nobody's piercing my ears."

"You don't want your ears pierced?" Luna inquires.

"No," Ranma states, incredulous. "Not without asking me first, and _definitely_ not if you're going to lop off an ear."

"Ah," Luna nods. "That makes things easier. May I pierce your ears?"

"_No_."

Jacey snickers at the blond; an arm clutched over her belly stifles any fuller laughter.

With a light, swaying jerk, the train begins to slow. The clickety-clack over jointed track becomes less frequent, and the pistons fade to silence. Other noises fill the void: wind shrieks, whistling around the car; the window trembles in its fittings, and rain hammers the roof overhead.

"'Bout 'effin time," the dark haired girl murmurs, tension melting from her taut muscles.

The blond frowns a little, and leans toward the window, attempting to pierce the black morass. "I don't see any lights from Hogsmeade."

Suddenly, the train lurches; the wheels lock and scream shrill against the metal railing below. BANG! Jacey's trunk crashes into the center of the compartment. The rocking lamps come to a rest, then die. Everything plunges to darkness.

"That's it. Frig moderation. I'm having another fag." Jacey begins to shuffle her hands across her seat, groping for her pack.

"This is certainly odd," Luna remarks. "I wonder if something broke. I hope we won't be stuck here."

"I effin' hate trains," Jacey grumbles. She repeatedly thumbs her lighter. Brilliant sparks play off the flint, but the girl is left with an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.

Confused and weary voices filter from the hall outside as students meander in search of answers. Luna stands uncertainly, stumbling over Jacey's luggage to peer again out the window. Jacey stubbornly continues to stroke the lighter. Gazing after Luna, Ranma frowns; the dull pain in her left leg and side discourages her from rising, but, from where she sits, Ranma sees nothing through the glass aperture but caliginous fog.

"Mom died in a train wreck four years ago," Jacey says suddenly. "I remember standing by my sister, watching as they sorted bodies into the dead and the dying. They didn't let us too close to the wreckage, but we knew when they found our mom. They were excited, you see -- she was one of the few still holding on. Mom couldn't talk much; she faded in and out of consciousness. I'm not sure how long we stayed with her before the bus picked us up. Eventually, though, she woke up and spoke to us as though she knew her words would be her last..." she trails into silence, gazing in contemplation at her lighter. Lips curling in disgust, she throws it to the floor.

"You'll see her again someday," Luna says firmly.

"No. I won't." The reply is cold, hard, and punctuated by the darkness surrounding the girls. "Mom's gone, dead, worm food, end of story, nothing more. That's what happens when people die. They _cease_. There is no sparkly city. There is no second life, no cheerful reunion. There is no great secret to be revealed. When you die, there is only nothingness, absolute and unending nothingness. And you can't even experience it because you are gone, too. Death is meaningless, just like the life before it."

"Death for the born and birth for the dead together are sworn and forever are wed," Luna's sing-song voice returns.

"Reincarnation?" Jacey snorts. "You think I haven't considered that? There are over five _billion_ people on this planet, Luna. Even if my mom is out there somewhere, I'll never find her. Even if I found her, I wouldn't recognize her. And even if I recognized her, she _wouldn't be my mom._"

... The final words of Jacey's diatribe fade into the distance, tinny, like a voice echoing down a long hallway. Luna's lips move in lethargic response, every twitch of teeth and tongue transient and insubstantial.

Ranma shivers. The air sleeps thick, heavy and stale, accompanied by an eerie chill. She feels as though she's choking upon it.

Ba-bump!

A sensation surges through her -- not a sound, not a feeling... but a cry, a wail -- the tortured heartbeat of a wretched child.

Ba-bump!

It pulses. Closer. She can almost feel it -- in her heart, in her hand. It reaches piteously, begging for salvation.

Ba-bump!

Her fingers and palm wrap around a ribbed pommel. The dagger -- Ranma knows even before she looks. In the dark it does not glitter, but the naked black-iron blade somehow stands stark against the shadows.

BBa-BBump! The dagger pulses again, and this time her heart beats with it. Her wounds throb. A wet warmth spreads across her abdomen -- a piceous pool crawling over the violet shirt. The cloth sticks to her flesh, cold and congealing at the edges. An ebon fluid precipitates through the fabric -- a drop, at first... then three thin ribbons flow through the air, orbiting the black-iron blade before plunging to its surface.

It stops.

The blade glows dim crimson as lines of blood dance upon the surface -- shimmering, twisting, writhing, forming ephemeral runes that are gone almost before they appear, leaving only lingering meaning.

_Pure food I have not eaten. _

_Clear water I have not drunk._

_An offense against my god have I unwittingly committed?_

_A transgression against my goddess have I unwittingly done?_

_I sought for help, but no one taketh my hand._

_I wept, but no one came to my side._

_I lamented, but no one hearkens to me._

_I am afflicted, I am overcome, I cannot look up._

_Mankind is perverted and has no judgment._

_Of all men who are alive, who knows anything?_

_I do not know whether I do good or evil._

_I am cast into the mire. _

_Take my hand._

... The lines continue to flow in recondite rhythm, but meaning does not.

"No," Luna cries. "You don't get my point!"

"You can't make a point with a circle," Jacey grunts, rolling her eyes. She gropes around a little. "Where's my effin' lighter."

"It's by your left foot," Ranma replies, tearing her eyes away from the dagger.

Jacey scoops it up. "Thanks. You've got good eyes. I can't see a damn thing."

"She must eat a lot of carrots," Luna says brightly, glad to escape the argument.

Jacey raises a brow, once again striking her lighter. For a moment, the flames catch, and the cigarette takes.

Schruff! A pale, elongated hand, dressed in thin strips of rotting flesh, slowly slides the door aside. A huge, hollow shadow, hidden under a hooded cloak, dominates the doorway. The thing twists it head to either side, before drawing a deep, rattling breath.

The glowing embers at the end of Jacey's cigarette quench in an instant; cold ashes tumble to the floor... then Ranma, too, finds herself-

falling...

_A white room, whispered words, a glowing sign -- a girl's fate hangs on edge, hidden beyond double doors. Her heart and the child's life rest now in the hands of a stranger with a scalpel. Waiting is quiet agony, but all she can do is wait -- helpless, hopeful, silent, stoic with pretended strength to support a friend._

The world spins -- drunken, disoriented; the image of the hospital is gone. Ba-bump! The dagger beats in her hand -- alive, eager... but thoughts regarding it are washed away. She feels her amulet burning against her breast, searing like a heated skillet, but the pain is distant, disconnected as though it were a mere memory. Only half-aware, Ranma gains a glimpse of the creature's wispy, sable cloak before...-

_A golden orb crashes, abused asphalt buckles, and metal screams. Torn, twisted towers surge above collapsing earth, and she plummets into aphotic void. Broken bodies, crushed by rubble, are imprisoned in a tomb of steel -- her act, her fault, her responsibility. Around her, voices cry in pain and terror, only to be snuffed. She turns. Atramentous, amorphous, _**It**_looms above, eclipsing the sun. _

**It** _reaches for her..._

A half-moon shines over a burning forest, obscured by billowing clouds of ash and soot. The fiery tempest throws sparks and smoke into the air, casting earth and sky in golds and reds. Ranma stands in a sheltered copse... and, all around her, shadows dance to the chaotic tempo of coruscating flames.

"She has come!" "She is here!" "She walks with us among the trees!" whispers call in a rising crescendo.

The surrounding shadows grow wider and darker, and ever more voices join an excited babble.

Ranma draws back a step, nervously, only to hear more whispers rising behind her. She cowers, her hands covering her ears in a vain attempt to block the noise. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

There is a moment of silence. Then a voice speaks up, then another and another, each speaking a line in a complex litany:

"Do not fear; let us near."

"Open wide your heart and mind"

"Do not try to deny"

"That our fates are intertwined"

"Let us be your arms, your hands"

"Entrust to us your righteous plans"

"We will grant what you desire..."

"Waltz with us in ash and fire."

Ranma tightens into a ball on the ground, and sways in rhythm with her own muttered mantra. "I'm not insane. I'm not insane. I'm not insane." Then the rising chant around her washes her voice away.

"We are pawns; you are queen"

"Lead us through the midnight veil"

"Dusk and dawn and inbetween"

"Are the moonlit seas we sail"

"Let the captain take the yoke"

"'n lead the way with blood and smoke"

"This is all that we require..."

"Waltz with us in ash and fire."

Ranma seizes the brief respite to scream her own reply. "No blood, no smoke, no ash, no fire -- I'm not this _queen_ you so admire! When you speak, I do not listen. Where you walk, I do not look. I sealed you once, and swear I _will_ win. I'll never yield the mind I took. Now leave! This is _my_ mind! Get out!"

"You'll do as you're told, boy," a powerful, gruff voice speaks from behind.

Ranma whirls to her feet and comes face-to-face with a thickset, balding man in a gi. As she observes his broad shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, prominent nose, and square jaw, a word rises in her throat. But she hesitates, choking on it. Her lips move without voice. Then, finally, she speaks. "... Oyaji?"

Firelight flashes off wire-rimmed glasses as the man subjects Ranma to a stern scrutiny. With a voice as grim and intense as his visage, he answers, "_Join us_, and you'll know."

Ranma falls back into a combat stance, eyes narrowing. "No." The word rings with finality.

The man raises his arms to the heavens and cries, "Oh, why did raise such an ungrateful son?" He thrusts a finger forward. "You want to fight, boy? Very well. _Anything goes_." His arm sweeps horizontally in a chopping gesture, and, from the shadows, five pandas materialize, encircling Ranma.

"Uh," Ranma begins nervously. "Can we make this one-on-one?"

Her attempt at conversation fails as the five pandas flow over her. She struggles, lashing out, attempting to defend, but each transforms into a thick, shadowy tar as they touch her... trapping her, sticking to her, pulling her down,

down...

down.

And slowly, as her twitching stops, she drowns.

The sweet scent of magic lingers in the aether, beguiling, alluring, drawing **her** slowly from slumber. As she looks about in her lethargy, the world feels muted, blunted, like the broken edge of a crystal dream. Two souls cower in the corners, weeping, their hosts pathetically strewn across the benches, heads slumped and limbs askew. In the doorway is the cause of their distress, a bottom feeder -- a grotesque, parasitic creature that will never grow into anything worthy... a vulgar offense to _her_ presence.

The creature turns towards her and inhales deeply, effecting a vortex that saps at spiritual energies, drawing trivial wisps from the children sharing her chamber.

She scoffs at its feeble attempt, and her lips waver between a disgusted frown and an arrogant sneer. The fragrant flavours are now fouled, polluted, profaned by the creature's egregious engorgement. It is enough to make her retch, yet it stirs within her a deep, lingering hunger. And, as she regards the creature, it falters. The aromas of apprehension and anxiety rise as it hovers, paralyzed, pinned by her unwavering gaze.

She derives some satisfaction from the creature's strong reaction, but turns to matters more worthy of her attention. Her gaze falls to the tiny hands of her child-host. Has she really fallen so far, to first be sealed by platoon of pompous deva, then again by a mere child? But she can hardly blame her host; that grudge has long since faded. She had been careless. Ardhendu had warned her against arrogance, but she sanctioned Dhuma's war anyway...

Absent her attention, the contemptible creature slinks carefully into the corridor. The moment it has fully extracted it's towering form, it chances a mad dash towards the next car, but as its ghastly hand reaches for the latch, tenebrous tendrils wrench it back then wrap about it, enshrouding it in shadow.

She senses it struggling -- at first frantic, frenzied, and furious, but flagging as its futile efforts are frustrated by the phantom fibers enfolding it. Her lips curl into a tiny smirk, but her eyes never leave the black-iron blade and the lines of crimson rolling across it. She can feel it. The dagger thrums in her hand, alive - promising power and providence, offering comfort and company... a place beside it in the mire. She meets the dagger's piteous lament with a sneer and contempt. How? How did this trifling toy succeed at sealing _HER_?

Ba-bump! The dagger's siren song stops.

Suddenly, the weapon twists, squirming with a sinuous, snake-like motion, striving to slide free of her white-knuckled grip. It briefly fades from the realm of light, but never once escapes her sight.

She holds it fast, delighting in the irony. That which holds her is now held by her. That which bound her shall be the key that sets her free. It is time to discard her prison, to cut wide the bindings, and take that which was meant to be hers.

To this end, she gathers her magic. Around her, darkness congeals, peeling away from the walls and floor, leaving in its wake an eerie pale defined more by the absence of shadow than the presence of illumination. It hovers about her, an aura -- atramentous, amorphous but denser, darker than any mere presence... a corporeal umbra. It whips and splashes like a lake in a storm, powerful and undirected.

Then from this umbra float threads of inky black. They weave themselves about the dagger into a loose sheathe of runes and shadow. With a snap, they tighten, digging into the blade. The dagger spasms once, then settles into a subdued quiver. The glowing lines of crimson grow still, then slowly, surely, move to her will.

With a quick flip, she reverses her grip then places the tip of the dagger above her left palm. She speaks a _word_. It leaves her lips, soft but sonorous, a discordant chorus of thirteen languages united by a single voice. She follows it with another, and another, beginning an incantation that reverberates throughout the room. As she chants, she lowers the blade until it bites then draws it across her flesh, carving lines and characters -- components of a gruesome gestalt.

Then her arm rises, lifting the dagger high above her mutilated hand. Beads of blood follow, raining upward in a scarlet shower before spiraling into the dark blade. The dagger greedily devours the fluid and crimson lines grow fat, widening, converging, becoming a sheet of ruby radiance. Silence stands, abrupt and awkward, as she completes her chant. Then, with a swift motion she thrusts the dagger towards the center of the sigil sliced into her palm.

Crack!

She stares, irritated. Her wrist is broken, shattered, twisted clean around such that the dagger's black blade points upwards towards her face. The weapon tugs ineffectually at her fingers, briefly testing its trappings. Then it calms and smirks back up at her.

_To jail another -_

_- the cell must be opened._

_The warden can be fooled._

Her lips curve into a sinister smile as the whispered advice leads her to a promising solution: _the parasite_. Yes, it should work... and provide a fitting end for a creature that departed without her leave.

She stands, restoring her flesh with an absent thought, saving only the arcane symbols carved into her left palm. As she fades into shadow, a metallic clatter sounds -- a tiny lump of lead bouncing on the ground.

She appears near the parasite with nary a whisper, and sneers at the trembling creature. Its senseless struggles surge then sputter, impotent before the darkness engulfing.

She raises the dagger.

Ba-bump! It throbs in her hand, eager, longing, crying to consummate its purpose, oblivious to all but its calling. The dagger clamors for control, whining and wailing, striving and failing.

Initially, she denies its desire, taking pleasure in her power over the weapon. Then, when she's had her fill, she _allows_ it to proceed.

Immediately, her arm lashes out and slashes across the parasite's belly. Thick, ephemeral strands of darkness stick like tar to the black-iron blade, stretching deep into the corrupt creature's essence. The dagger dances a complex pattern, drawing ephemeral runes: sigils writ in a child's blood and a monster's soul. As the action continues, her lips begin to speak words of a language four-thousand years dead:

_"The weak have become strong; but I am weak._

_"I toss about like flood-waters, which an evil wind makes violent._

_"My heart is flying; it keeps fluttering like a bird of heaven._

_"I mourn like a dove night and day."_

She finishes the litany with the dagger raised high like a conductor's wand holding the final note. Then, she twirls the weapon and thrusts it into the center of her left palm. The dark blade tears through flesh and spirit alike, and the pain... the pain is almost indescribable. She hisses through clenched teeth, and her vision flashes white as hot acid spikes are driven up her arm; a ravenous army of ants rip, tear, and shred her flesh; and molten magma washes over it all. The agony of cold-iron consumes her and, for a moment, she knows nothing else.

A violent wind rages through the hall; the windows shudder and shatter, and the dead, hanging lanterns are rent from their mounts. Among a rain of glass and water, a redhead child stands, beneath a magic vortex encircling her hand. The cyclone shreds the monster, grinding it into thin rivers of spectral slush that orbit overhead. The dagger acts as a lightning rod: drawing, directing, driving great bolts of black deep into the wounded palm. And, on that palm, carved arcane glyphs begin to burn a bright, fiery orange in a rising wreathe of flame that rolls about the silver guard and licks the weapon's golden hilt. The incandescent sigils contract, coiling around the dark blade before creeping down the narrow corridor shorn through flesh and spirit... but the black bolts beat back the flame; ba-bump! ba-Bump! Ba-Bump! -- fantastic phantasmic flashes fall faster and the dagger's heartbeat rises, each pulse pumping pureed parasite into flesh, into spirit, into **her**.

Her eyes snap open. Pain lances up her arm, and foul flavors flavors flood her senses, as though she had swallowed something nasty... great gobs of mold torn from the bathroom wall. ba-bump! ba-Bump! Ba-Bump! The fire of her own magic continues to falter under the pounding offered it by the dagger. But the pain, the execrable effluvium, and the dying flames do nothing to diminish her tremendous delight. The cell is open. Her spell is cast. The warden has taken the bait. Now, she need only ensure her victory.

With that thought she gathers her power and _pulls_. Fwoosh! The glyphs blaze brilliantly, casting the corridor in hues of orange and harsh shadow, and, for but an instant, illuminating a pale visage not her own. Then her fire implodes, carried by carven runes as they rush into the fleshy portal introduced by the dark blade. After the last, glowing ember falls into that bloody pit, she grasps the dagger's golden hilt; then, with a victorious grin, she wrenches the weapon from her palm.

From her lips fall her own, mocking lines in that language long dead: "Now dark and smoky, may my brazier glow; now extinguished, may my torch be lighted."

A faint, ephemeral haze rises from her left hand weak, frail, insubstantial. Then, slowly, it grows into a murky, shadowy torch burning darkly in her left palm. Her elation surmounts her growing exhaustion; for the first time since contact with her host, she tastes, unfiltered, her environs. The odor is pungent, putrid, and nauseating; the stench of spiritual sewage contaminates both every inch of her arm and the atmosphere into which she rises. Yet it seems the sweet scent, that breath of fresh air to a criminal who clambered through miles of urine and feces to escape her captors, the fragrance of freedom. The flavor of fear-

- the fear is not her own. She turns, gazing over her shoulder to see whom has dared enter without her consent -- a boy, a human magic-child, eyes wide and spirit aquiver. Behind him, warm lamps spark suddenly to life, adding color to his sharp, noble features and setting his blond hair aglow in a splendid corona; the boy stands at a doorway, back to the light, facing darkness. Some light spills around him, over him illuminating shattered glass, storm-battered walls, the torn rigging for a hanging lantern. Light shines on her back, her slender arms, her nearest hand... the object clutched glimmers gold and silver. Light reveals red hair, cute face, intense eyes. But, aside from those few patches of light, her corridor is painted black, submerged in shadow. The boy's own shadow stretches forth, stark and hard, hiding everything that falls beneath it. A stenciled contrast exists between dark and bright, and the border between them... crawls.

_'Trembling child, let us comfort you.' 'Join us.' 'Yes, join us.' 'Cleanse our palate with your soul.'_

The boy steps back, gray eyes darting left and right. After a second, his trepid attention returns to the redheaded child, the gaze that pierces his soul, the lips quirked in silent satisfaction at his discomfort. With obvious effort, he swallows his fear, forces himself to breathe, then asks, "W- wh- who are you?"

_'We are your fears.' 'We are your pain.' 'We are darkness and profane.' 'We kill your hopes.' 'We haunt your dreams.' 'In the night we cause your screams.'_

With each phrase, the voices dance. Above, below, beside, behind, they whisper, whisper, whisper, whilst shadows shift and waver. Stark fingers stretch, creeping, crowding close and closer to the pale-faced boy. He takes a second step back, then a third. Then the child flees in earnest; his silver-trimmed school robes whirl as he turns toward the light. The door slams shut enclosing her, once more, in darkness.

She holds her eyes on the doorway a moment longer, smirking after the terrified boy. She can feel him still, even in the bright car beyond. It would be trivial to trap him, to bind him with shadow as she had the parasite... but weariness and nausea weigh upon her, leaving the idea of a second meal even more repulsive than her first.

That, and she is distracted by a mild irritation growing around a weight on her chest and the faint but familiar scent of smoke and smoulder.

Shadow-shrouded fingers enclose hard metal. White light explodes, flashing to life upon contact. Her hand twitches away, and glowing motes, embers of cotton cloth, float slowly to the floor. Growing dim against her skin is an amulet of iron, wrought in the form of an eldritch symbol.

Cold Iron. Her host wears _cold iron_. She seethes as her burnt and blackened fingers fill again with pink flesh. Dancing shadows vanish into the healing wound. Her left hand clenches into a fist. Caked and carbonized flakes of flesh crumble free. Then, purposefully, she opens her hand, lifting it to her chest a second time.

Crunch!

Ranma stares at the crushed amulet, dread growing deep within. Why? Why did she destroy it? But she knows... she remembers the repugnance, the revulsion she felt just moments ago, and the smug satisfaction as the metal yielded within her grip. She remembers it all. But she feels detached from it, surreal, as though she had just woken from a dream...

... or, perhaps, that she is still dreaming.

Her thoughts are interrupted by boisterous voices and discontented shouts approaching from the adjacent car. Panic replaces dread as Ranma's eyes shoot to her destroyed shirt, the dagger in her hand, and the destruction all around. In a frenzied motion, the dagger is shoved into one pocket while school robes are swept from the other.

When the blond-haired boy from before stumbles through the door, her head and hands are through their holes and her hem is just reaching the floor

"Wow, Draco, we take back everything! Who _wouldn't_ be terrified of a tiny, first-year girl?" gibes a tall redhead, one of a pair shepherding the blond into the car.

"Unhand me, Weasleys!" Draco snarls... but his eyes fixate upon Ranma as he pulls himself upright and straightens his silver-trimmed robes.

The twins' eyes are anything but fixated. They rove across the room, falling on shattered windows, broken glass littering the floor, a bathroom door wrenched violently out of place. Finally, one boy releases a low whistle. "Check it out Fred. This place looks even worse than when we set off a whole box of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start No-Heat Fireworks in first year!"

For a few more seconds, Fred scans the hall. "Nothing is burning," he replies.

"... True," the first concedes. "But even _we_ didn't manage to destroy _all_ the windows."

"Well, I'll give you that, George." Fred admits. "So we've been outdone. Now, who do we applaud for this marvelous work?"

"Yes, who could be so capable...," George muses.

"... so wicked...," Fred adds.

"... so _terrifying_?" the two finish together, gazing directly at Ranma.

Ranma freezes momentarily... then quickly assumes the most innocent of smiles. "Who'd be frightened of little ol' me?" she asks, looking supremely cute.

"Ohhh, she's good," Fred states, turning to his brother.

Any response from George is interrupted when the rear carriage door swings open. A tall man with graying brown bed-hair and patchy, rumpled robes takes a moment to examine the walls and floor before stepping over a broken lamp and into the corridor. "I'm Professor Lupin, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Is there something going on here that I should know about?" he asks mildly.

Draco scowls fiercely. "_I_ was just leaving," he states before shoving his way between the older boys.

Lupin's gaze remains on the twins, and he waits. Patiently.

"Ah, George, it seems we must explain ourselves."

"Well, then we shall! Hmmm..." George pauses for a moment, contemplating where to begin. "I'd say this all started when Draco burst frightfully into our compartment."

Fred nods. "Frightful, indeed. We could have been doing something dreadfully embarassing."

George gazes at his brother for a moment. "I was talking about him, Fred. There he stood -- eyes wild, face pale-"

"- no paler than usual," Fred interjects.

"True. But he was terrified. That's all I meant. Gibbering, even... like a madman."

"Yes. We couldn't make out a word he was saying. But, being the responsible fifth-year students that we are, we -"

"- magnanimously -" George supplies.

"- yes, _magnanimously_ took it upon ourselves to investigate the source of his distress."

"And behold! We found it!" The boys announce as one, flamboyantly gesturing towards Ranma.

"Hey!" Ranma protests.

Lupin indicates the sorry state of the corridor. "Are you forgetting something?"

"Oh, that." Fred pauses momentarily, as though recalling a minor detail, then dismisses the whole affair. "All Draco's fault."

"Yes. When faced with another red-headed first-year girl, he fled so swiftly that all the windows blew out in his wake," George states matter-of-factly. "It seems that Ginny left quite an impression."

Fred nods in affirmation. "He admitted it himself. He was _just leaving_."

Lupin maintains a straight face through the entire explanation. Then, he turns to Ranma and kindly asks, "Did you see anything?"

Ranma bites her lip, drops her gaze to Lupin's feet, and sniffs twice through her nose. "I'm not really sure what happened, Professor." She pauses in thought then adds, "But- but there was this big monster..."

"It isn't your fault. Here," Lupin says, approaching the girl and placing a wrapped bar into her hand. "Eat this. It's chocolate. You'll feel-" Suddenly, the man frowns, his nose wrinkling briefly before his visage takes an expression of concern. He leans a bit closer, examining her in the dim corridor. "Were you hurt? or cut?" he asks.

Ranma's eyes shift briefly to her left hand, discreetly examining her palm in the light from the next carriage. Then the short redhead slowly shakes her head in the negative, still not lifting her eyes.

"Good," the man states, standing upright. "Eat that chocolate. It'll help.

"Now you two," the rumple-robed professor turns toward the twins, "I understand that you are not at fault for this damage. But, being the responsible fifth-year students that you are," he allows himself the most subtle of smiles "- you shall _magnanimously_ take it upon yourselves to repair this corridor before someone is hurt. I must speak to the conductor."

That said, he sweeps past the twins and into the next car.

"Why, Fred, I do believe we've been had," George says, blinking.

Fred nods. "Yes, George. We walked right into that one. But catching us? _Masterful._"

"You shouldn't manipulate a professor like that!" a new voice chastens from the back of the car.

"Well then, Hermione, how do you propose we _should_ manipulate a professor?" Fred asks.

George grins playfully. "Yes. We wait in anticipation of your flawless advices."

"Not you!" Hermione snaps, stomping over scattered glass. "I was talking to my sister."

"_Neesan_..." Ranma's voice is soft but strained, her eyes lowered, her bangs shielding her face from view. "I'm scared, _neesan_. I'm not sure I want to go to Hogwarts."

Hermione whirls upon her sister, her mouth open as if to shout, but the sharp words freeze in her throat. She swallows, takes a hesitant step forward, hand reaching out... then halts again.

Ranma allows her shoulders to slump further and sniffs twice more before taking a few shuffling steps closer to her sister.

Hermione crumbles, pulling her sister into a tight hug. "Don't worry, Ranma. It isn't usually this bad. Things'll be better when we get to Hogwarts. You'll see."

"Well, that's stuffed!" Ranma announces, her act evaporating in an instant. "Didn't you get to fight a basilisk last year?"

Hermione instantly steps back. "You little brat!" she growls. "Why do I even bother? And aren't you two supposed to be doing something?" she snaps the last at the boys who silently observed the entire exchange.

"Yes, ma'am!" the two say in unison, making a show of genuflecting before scurrying into action.

Ranma flashes a grin at her sister. "Say, _neesan_, what are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, I came to see if you were alright, but since _that_ was a waste of time, I'll settle for just picking up my school robes."

Ranma shrugs then steps into the dark compartment and flops onto the nearest bench. She begins unwrapping the bar of chocolate, paying little attention to Luna, who weeps silently across from her, and Jacey, who lies dull-eyed against the window.

Hermione stumbles in behind, almost tripping over Jacey's luggage. "Why is it so dark in here?" she asks, but her words are made moot almost immediately as light is restored to the hallway behind her. Her eyes move immediately to Ranma's companions, then to her sister who munches quietly on the chocolate while pointing at the above luggage rack. She frowns. "Give them the chocolate, Ranma. They need it more than you."

"Fine," Ranma grumbles, snapping what's left of the chocolate into halves and tossing them into the laps of the girls. "It's not like I haven't eaten all day."

"And whose fault is that?" Hermione replies while poking at the overhead lamp with her wand. "Why won't this thing light?" The rhetorical question goes unanswered. She sighs, tucks the wand away, and reaches for her luggage.

Ranma maintains an eerie silence as Hermione pulls her robes over her muggle clothes.

Hermione gives her sister an odd look as she gathers her heavy cloak under her left arm, then turns back to the other girls. "You should eat that chocolate," she states. "It'll help."

Then she's gone.

**-o3o-**

Ranma steps off the train into an elemental assault where sheets of rain spill over her cloak, pouring off every edge in an icy cascade. Sputtering winds nip and bite hungrily at the her hat, forcing Ranma to hold onto the pointy Hogwarts headgear until it slouches, as sodden and spiritless as the few children already present. While Ranma joins them on the tiny platform, a reluctant Jacey is pushed into the torrent by the crowd behind her.

"We better get to someplace warm quick, cause it's friggin cold out here," Jacey grumbles.

In the heavy rain the cloaks are already sopping up water, growing wet, cold, and heavy. Ranma finds herself very glad that the robes she is wearing underneath are both self drying and temperature adjusting.

"First years always take the boats across the lake. Older students get to ride in the carriages." Luna smiles weakly, huddling against the cold, her blond hair and soda-tab earrings fluttering in the wind. "I think I'll go now."

The blond wastes no time in hurrying off the small platform and onto a rugged, muddy trail. Ahead is a line of roofed carriages drawn by gaunt, skeletal horses with great, leathery wings. The windows are warm, seductive, enticing, glowing with the cozy light of kerosene lamps.

Jacey gazes after the girl enviously, then turns to the dark, rainswept path leading to the lake. "No

'effin way! She has _got_ to be kidding."

"Firs' years this way!" a gruff bellow denies Jacey's assertion. A lantern pierces the night from the opposite side of the platform, faintly illuminating the huge man carrying it.

"Nope," Ranma states blithely, "Apparently, she wasn't kidding."

Jacey gives Ranma a dark, smouldering look. "How can you be so cheerful?"

"My robes are self-drying _and_ temperature adjusting."

"..." Jacey continues to glare daggers at the redhead while shivering uncontrollably.

With their short conversation dead in the water, the two girls move towards the gathering crowd of first years just off the main platform. Jacey, seeking warmth and protection from the wind, quickly attempts to penetrate the mass of young students. However, she settles for shivering at the edge when she is rebuffed by several boys attempting the exact same thing. Ranma stands apart from it all... above it.

"Ranma!" a high voice penetrates the babble of children and shrill wind.

Ranma turns and waves at her sister's tuft of brown hair as Hermione pushes her way through the crowded platform.

"What ya' need, _neesan_?" Ranma asks.

"Ranma, I just...-" Hermione wilts. She pulls her flailing hood back over her head. "I can't believe they are making you ride on those boats in this weather. It's ridiculous."

"I'll be fine _neesan_," Ranma dismisses. "I've been out in worse." She pauses, forming a frown of her own. "Though, I can't remember when."

"Well, you _shouldn't_ have been," Hermione says, pulling out her wand. "You'll get sick staying out in weather like this. _Impervius_!"

The rain hitting Ranma's cloak immediately ceases to soak through; instead, it beads then rolls smoothly off the surface. The dampness that had been creeping into her robes quickly vanishes, but the cloak itself remains heavy and wet.

"Hey, thanks _neesan_," Ranma says as Hermione casts the spell on Jacey and a lucky couple other children.

"Really, the prefects should be taking care of this. I can't believe everyone is just leaving you kids to fend for yourself!" Hermione stops her rant then speaks again, softly, this time for her sister's ears alone. "Ranma- Promise me, Ranma, that you'll visit even if we end up in different houses."

"Hey! Hermione! You out there?" that boy, Ron, shouts from a carriage. His eyes are directed to the swiftly emptying platform, obviously searching for his missing friend. Behind him sit Harry and Ginny, each looking rather glum.

Hermione yells back at the top of her lungs. "I'll be there in a minute!" As she returns to her sister, Hermione sighs and stares into deep, cerulean eyes. "I need to go, Ranma. I- I still want to talk about this morning, and I-. Ranma, you aren't alone."

"This one's taken, Creevey!" Ron's voice again penetrates the gale. A quick glance shows him shoving a short, hooded boy out of his carriage. "Hurry up, Hermione! You can talk to your crazy sister later!"

"Your boyfriend is calling, _neesan_."

Hermione growls and turns away, annoyed, but she is stopped when Ranma suddenly wraps her slender arms about her sister. The short redhead wordlessly presses her face against her sister's back, holding tight in silent embrace. Then, just as suddenly, back turned to her sister's stunned response, Ranma is trotting after the other children towards the boats.

Steep, narrow, and rank with such hazards as slippery moss, thick roots, and sunken hollows, the path to the lake would be treacherous even on a good day. At night, with the full moon and stars hidden beyond thick growth and thicker clouds, the only source of light is a tiny lamp in the great man's hand... and even that is so far ahead as to be but a faint pinprick, a glimmering beacon offering direction in its brief moments of visibility. The dismal weather only magnifies the danger for the children forced to trudge the trail. Their every footfall is mired in muck that grips and sucks, or lands in impenetrable puddles of frigid, muddy waters that splash upwards, soaking socks and shoes.

A sharp curse is followed by a body slamming into Ranma's back, and the short redhead's foot slams into a puddle she had been meaning overstep.

"Sorry 'bout that," Jacey mumbles, using Ranma to leverage herself upright.

Ranma grimaces, pulling her previously dry foot from the runny slush. "Just don't do it again."

"There's only one way I can guarantee that," Jacey responds, tightening her grip on the smaller girl's shoulder.

Ranma raises a brow and glances back at the goth. "If that's the way you want it: keep up!"

Ranma immediately increases her pace, stepping over a fallen boy and striding past a crying girl with a sprained ankle. Jacey slips and stumbles, straining to match Ranma's gait, knowing the moment she lets go she'll end up with her face planted in the mud.

The two are near the front of the pack when the trail suddenly opens revealing a great, black lake. The water churns, cresting and crashing, and the giant man stands among the waves, battered and bludgeoned as he wrestles a small fleet of half-sunken skiffs to shore. From beyond the raging waters, dim light shimmers golden through the rain, offering hope to those children optimistic enough to believe they'll make it across.

"We're all gonna die," Jacey laments. She gazes back up the trail for a minute, then sighs.

The big man finishes draining the last of the boats, placing it at water's edge. Then he sweeps back, lifts his lantern off a branch, and scans the half-sized crowd of students. "I remember 'ere bein' more o' yeh," he says, frowning. "I'll be back. No more'n four to a boat!"

He trudges back up the trail, taking the lantern with him.

A few groups of children break off, laying claim to those boats that are nearest or appear sturdiest. Others meander along the shore before huddling by the trees, away from the rain and wind.

A flash of magic grabs Ranma's attention -- a trio of children are boarding a boat. She's about to look away when she glimpses a pair of pigtails concealed beneath a hooded cloak. Her eyes narrow, and she notes the haughty posture of the other two.

Ranma cracks her knuckles. "Wait here," she commands. "I have a private matter to... take care of."

"Okaaay. You do that," Jacey disparages. "I'll wait right here."

Ranma approaches the boat directly, a wolfish grin widening on her face. She places one foot on the stern then leans forward, shoving the boat a few inches into the water. The motion immediately draws the attention of the occupants.

"Whoever you are, get away from our boat," a snide voice demands. Ranma immediately identifies the speaker: the obnoxious, green-eyed girl from Madam Malkin's.

"You don't recognize me. I'm hurt," Ranma says, her grin widening. "So which one are you? Anise? Camassia? Jonquil?"

"_Lumos._" The word is spoken softly, and a faint light springs to life at the tip of a wand, not much brighter than a candle. The wand is held by the girl with auburn hair and gray eyes who dispassionately surveys the intruder. "Ranma Granger," she says, each syllable spoken precisely in her silvery voice. "Are you here to deliver a real apology or to violate your probation?"

Ranma's eyes widen, but her grin never falters. "No, no. Nothing like that. I came to ensure you received my apology... and to let you know I'm feeling inspired to righteous action by your presence."

"You wouldn't dare." The gray-eyed girl's tone is no less smooth, but now has a cutting edge.

"Yeah, mudblood! You can't touch us!" the obnoxious, green-eyed girl cuts in. "If you do, her uncle will have you expelled, just like he made you write the apology." Her voice assumes a mocking quality. "_I'm sorry for my behavior. It was inappropriate. In the future, I'll be sure to show the _correct_ amount of restraint._ For a mudblood like you, the correct amount of restraint is to get down on your knees and _beg_ for forgiveness." The girl gloats then adds, "We _own_ you, mudblood."

Ranma stares incredulously for a moment... then bursts out laughing. Seconds later, she regains control and turns back to the gray-eyed girl. "So, Camassia is it? You should _shut_ your minion _up_. She's an _idiot_!"

The green-eyed girl explodes from her seat, her face twisted in rage, lunging at Ranma, arms extended like claws of a harpy. "I'm going to kill you, Mudblood!" she screeches.

Ranma's grin stretches to its limits as she falls backwards all the while shoving the boat into the lake with as much force as she thinks can look natural. Her own pratfall is followed by the satisfying 'thunk' of the green-eyed girl striking the stern. She suppresses a chuckle as the skiff is pulled away from the shore and into the seething waters. Then, hearing footsteps behind her, she adopts an expression of worry.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" a child's voice asks. A hand is extended, offering aid.

"I'm okay," Ranma says with artificial pain and stoicism. She accepts the hand and is lifted to her feet. "But what about them?"

The other child scoffs. "Why are you worried about _them_? _They_ attacked _you_. And, whatever those bigoted, blood-purists said, just ignore it. You're better than them."

"If you say so," Ranma answers weakly, staring at her feet to hide her smile. She can hear cries and screams as the boat vanishes behind curtains of rain. Then she whines, "I'm sure they're gonna blame this all on me." Sniff sniff... sniff.

"Don't worry about those girls! Me, and everyone on my boat, will vouch for you!"

"Thank you so much," Ranma says. "I'm Ranma. Can I have your name? just in case?"

"I'm Romilda," the child says. "Romilda Vane. I'm a half-blood, not that it matters, but you can come to me if you need help. I'd offer you a place on my boat, but it's already full."

"That's okay," Ranma accepts, still acting the meek little girl. "I'll go back to my friend."

"A _real_ friend would have backed you up," Romilda states.

"I'm sure she means well. Thanks again," Ranma says, bowing impulsively. Then she makes quick her escape.

"You pushed them, didn't you?" Jacey asks as Ranma approaches.

Ranma smirks. "There's an entire boat full of people who will say otherwise."

"So... Care to tell me what that was about? And how the effin' hell did you recognize them from back here, anyway? It's all black on black to me."

"You have bad eyes," Ranma answers.

"I've got _perfect_ vision," Jacey snorts. "You've got _freaky_ vision."

At that moment, the warm glow of the lantern breaks through the wood, and the children turn to see the huge man. In his left arm he cradles a sobbing girl, and around him stands a small troop of sodden, sullen students.

"Everybody in a boat!" the giant bellows.

Ranma and Jacey drop into the nearest boat with two open spaces, joining a pair of boys who offer a cursory glance before resuming their conversation - some argument about the merits and qualities of quodpot over quidditch. The bellows continue as the great man corrals the kids into the skiffs, and it isn't long before they're heading across the lake, bucking and rolling on the waves.

Water crashes over the edge of the boat, drenching Ranma and tasting of brine. Hermione's charm collapses under the deluge, and Ranma shivers, soaked to the bone. She tightens her arms about her chest and watches avidly as the warm glow from the castle windows draws ever closer.

As the lights begin to vanish above the cliffs, the water suddenly grows calm.

"Watch yer heads!"

The warning comes moments before they pass beneath thick coils of ivy and into a dim cave. The children brighten visibly, gasping in relief and pointing at the torchlit harbor not far ahead. Ranma notes the already docked skiff, then offers a cheeky grin to the three girls glaring daggers from ashore. As her own boat comes to a stop, Ranma hops onto dry land.

The green-eyed girl doesn't waste a second before stomping, full of fury and indignation, towards the giant man.

He glances up at her while lifting a girl from his boat. "Good, yer alright. 'fraid I'd have to get Dumbledore."

"We were pushed! by that mudblood!" the obnoxious girl shouts. Her outstretched arm points accusingly at the small redhead.

The big man frowns, his bushy eyebrows tightening. "You shouldn' use words like that, missy."

"But she pushed us!" the girl yells. "She tried to kill us! She should be in Azkaban!"

"That's not how I heard it," the man replies gruffly. "And _nobody_ should spend time in _that_ place." He quickly turns and takes several long strides up a dark passage. "This way!" he booms back.

Camassia and her obnoxious minion cast a final, defiant glare before moving towards the passage, but the brown-haired girl with twin pigtails gazes only at her feet. Ranma offers a small smile when she sees Romilda looking particularly smug.

The trip up the tunnel ends, opening unto the castle courtyard. The cold rain and harsh winds do little to dampen the children's spirits as they lay eyes upon Hogwarts for the first time.

"Everybody 'ere?" the big man bellows, giving a cursory glance to the crowd. He then turns towards a heavy oak door, and raises his beefy hand to knock, when it swings open of its own volition.

In the doorway stands a pallid man with a hooked nose, greasy hair, and coal-black eyes that seem to sap what little warmth the children have left.

The giant stares at the man in surprise before remembering his position. "Firs' years, Professor Snape."

"I can _see_, Hagrid," Snape responds. His dour visage sweeps across the collection of cold, soggy students as though he had just discovered something disgusting to scrape from his heel. Eventually, his gaze settles back on Hagrid. "You may go."

Hagrid places the child in his arms upon the massive, stone steps that rise to the door. "Where's Professor McGonagall?" he asks.

"She had something important to discuss with Miss Granger, and by now she is undoubtedly doting on the Potter boy. Now, _please, leave_." The dark man watches as Hagrid takes his cue and exits, then turns to the children. For a minute, Snape just stares at them, his lip half-curled, watching those in front shiver under their sopping, freezing robes, rubbing hands to warm their fingers.

His wand flickers out. "_Mobilicorpus._ Follow me." He turns and strides into the great hall, the girl Hagrid left on the steps floating behind him.

The kids clamber into the castle, eager to escape the rain.

Snape stares as they gather in a chamber off the main hall, and the children gaze back, too intimidated to speak. A boy near the front sneezes explosively into his hands, then takes a moment to wipe the mucous off onto his plain black Hogwarts robes. Snape's upper lip curls a little higher.

Seconds pass.

"You are now at Hogwarts," Snape announces, shattering the silence. "If you are fortunate, this is where you shall remain for the next ten months.

"Soon, each of you will take part in the sorting ceremony. This ceremony determines with which house of doddering fools you'll be stuck for the next seven years. There are four houses: Hufflepuff, best known for its lack of anything remarkable -" his eyes rake across the students, stopping briefly on those hiding in the back "- an excellent choice for those of you who wish to be forgotten. Ravenclaw, a house of dreamers and thinkers who believe themselves intelligent but have long since divorced themselves from reality. Gryffindor, a house of arrogant fools who pride themselves on their lack of self-preservation... but I suppose we should be glad for their presence. If there's ever a threat, they'll die first. And, of course, Slytherin, famous for producing more Dark Wizards than all other houses combined. Those of you who end up in House Slytherin will experience the 'pleasure' of having _me_ as your house head." Upon saying this, he scours the group with a silent glare. Then he continues.

"While here, your achievements will earn house points... but rule-breaking will lose them and secure the scorn of your peers. I strongly suggest you pay attention to the rules, that you may better avoid breaking them. The house with the most points at the end of the year will earn the House Cup –- an empty honor, to be sure, but coveted nonetheless.

"The sorting will begin in a few minutes. You will remain here until I return to fetch you. I would suggest you make yourselves presentable," he says, staring at the sodden, muddy, shivering children, "as you will soon be... tested and judged before the entire school. But I know a hopeless cause when I see one." Then, with a sudden smirk, he turns and heads into the main hall, his robes billowing behind him.


	9. Sortings

Author's Notes

**Eldritch Asylum**

obsidian-fox and Xylix

(alpha)

**Started:** May 13, 2007

**Last Update:** Apr 11, 2008

**Disclaimer:** Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

**Last Chapter:** _Injured and weary, Ranma sleeps through much of the trip from London to Hogsmeade on the Hogwarts Express. An encounter with a Dementor, however, initiates events that reveal more of the mysteries surrounding the dagger and Ranma... and leave both Ranma and our audience entirely confused. The dementors on the train followed by a trip down a treacherous, storm-swept trail and across a black, roiling lake only to receive a sniping speech from Snape leaves most of the first-year children cold, wet, and numb. It is, most decidedly, __**not**__ a warm welcome to Hogwarts._

**Author Notes:** _It seems that last chapter's train section was exceptionally thick and slippery. Some of that was intentional: mysterious bits oughtn't be explained outright if they're to maintain any mystery. But, perhaps, it was a bit much. Do not worry that you did not comprehend the section 'tween the Dementor's arrival and the crushing of the amulet; there are bits of history buried in there for those who seek it, but Ranma didn't comprehend it either. You can trust that you understand (plot-wise) as much or more than Ranma does._

_We'll be answering direct questions from the reviews in the dedicated story forum... or at least those for which the answers do not constitute spoilers._

Chapter 8: Sortings

_Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind._

_-- Dr. Suess_

**September 1993**

-o0o-

"You are not to attempt to change events. You are not to allow anyone to see you in two places at once. You are not to let _anyone_ know of this, including your friends. Do you understand, Miss Granger? You are to use this _only_ so that you may attend conflicting classes."

Hermione nods resolutely at each admonition. "I understand, Professor McGonagall."

Professor McGonagall - a stern woman in emerald green robes - studies Hermione through square spectacles. Then, reluctantly, she yields a golden necklace bearing a tiny hourglass. Hermione quickly slips it around her neck and tucks it into her robes.

"I don't know what Albus was thinking when he decided to solve a student's class conflicts with his time turner," McGonagall says. Disapproval is obvious in her tone. "But I trust you won't abuse this privilege. Now, if I remember correctly, I sent an invitation this year to another Miss Granger. I presume she is your sister?"

"Yeah, Ranma..."

"Then it would be best if you see her sorting. So, just this once, I'll permit you to use the time turner. You'll have to wait at least a minute after I pull you out before you enter. I believe you found a nice alcove behind the knight in the main hall."

Hermione draws the hourglass from her robes, pauses in consideration, then drops it back to her chest. "Actually, there was something else I wanted to talk about," she says, somewhat nervously. She glances up to the professor's tight-lipped expression. "I was wondering if... you know..."

"There is no need to be shy, Miss Granger."

"Well, I was wondering if I could start studying for OWLs," Hermione's words fly in a rush.

"You are _not_ to use that device for extra studying time!" The professor's reply is immediate and severe and delivered with a chopping gesture. Then the woman adjusts her glasses and continues, "And while I find your academic focus commendable, you are only a third year, and I think you'll discover your schedule full enough as it is. I suggest we wait on this conversation until next year."

"But, but, but-" Hermione panics, jitters, clutches at her chest. "But Ranma already took her muggle OWL-equivalents! I can't let her beat me here, too!"

"You worry over nothing. I've been teaching here for thirty-seven years and I've never seen a student take her OWLs early."

"But yoou caaan!" Hermione wails, wide-eyed and tugging at her hair. "I looked it up!"

McGonagall's stern visage softens. "Very well. If you find you have enough time, we'll discuss this again over winter break. But don't forget that, even though exams were canceled, you still lost two months last year. Don't think it will be easy. Either way, I can direct you to some study materials over the summer."

The moment she stops talking, Hermione eagerly cuts in. "I have all that homework I missed. It's in my trunk." She gazes up at the professor, brown eyes filled with hope. "I _need_ to do this."

The austere professor sighs. "If you truly want this, I can't stop you. But you shouldn't sacrifice your childhood or push away your friends just to get a few months ahead. I suggest you wait until winter break. You'll know better by then whether you can handle the burden."

Hermione's gaze drops to her feet then drifts down the hall towards the infirmary. "I understand, Professor," she says after a moment, subdued. "You don't think I can do it."

McGonagall observes the bushy-haired third-year girl, her lips pressed in a thin line. After some hesitation, she places a hand on the child's shoulder. "Hermione, you're a brilliant student, and I have no doubt that, should you choose to, you could complete all of your OWLs next year. However, there's far more to life than scholastic success, and I would be quite distraught if that was all you took from Hogwarts." She relinquishes contact with the young witch. "But it seems you're intent on this. We'll discuss this again over winter break, and I promise you that your proposal will receive serious consideration. Now, if there's nothing else, I would like to attend the meal."

"Well, there is one more thing," Hermione begins, already looking guilty.

"What now, Miss Granger?"

"It's about my sister."

"Whatever you plan to share is almost certainly best discussed with her head of house."

"I can't talk to Professor Snape!" Hermione bemoans.

"You should leave sorting to the Sorting Hat," McGonagall replies. "And, if your sister _is_ a Slytherin, then I'm certain that Severus will listen if what you have to say has any merit. Now, I really must attend the feast. Anything else can wait until later."

The professor immediately turns away and starts clopping down the hall.

-o1o-

The dimly lit chamber is silent in the moments following Snape's abrupt departure, but the small crowd of sodden children shivers, shuffles, and shifts with growing restlessness. The girl carried in by Hagrid cradles her injured ankle and gazes at the closed door with a blank expression of sullen resignation, her tears long since dried up. To the side, a trio of eleven-year-old boys commiserate, and share war stories, exposing skinned knees and elbows from a doubtlessly nasty spill in the dark forest.

Ranma spots a few girls fretting over each other's hair, Romilda Vane among them, brushing it out, braiding it, and making a valiant attempt to clean the mud off one another's faces with a rationed pair of embroidered handkerchiefs. Deciding that the dark professor's final advice is worth following, Ranma also takes a moment to smarten up. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her robes then wrings the water from her hair. A quick glance shows the young goth gazing at a small hand-mirror and attempting with a small white cloth to wipe away the worst of her running mascara and eye-shadow.

Sniff, sniff. "I'm not sure I want to go to Hogwarts!" a small voice cries oddly familiar words at Ranma's elbow.

The redhead turns towards the speaker - a slouching, sniffling boy with shock-white, bowl-cut hair who stands, despite his poor posture, head and shoulders taller than herself. The boy's eyes are rubbed red, raw, and puffy, and his hands - scratched and torn by a fall on the steep path to the lake - succeed only at shifting mud around his face. His heavy, wet robes seem to drag him body and spirit to the ground, and water pools around his feet and rolls towards her own. Ranma isn't convinced that all of it is lake and rain. Feeling a sudden flash of intense irritation, she steps away and glares at him.

"What is your name?" she demands.

"C-Conrad," the boy whimpers.

"Well, stop your crying, Conrad," Ranma coldly pronounces. "You sound pathetic. I'd say you were whining like a spoiled little girl, but most of the girls here are handling themselves better than you. You're a boy. Grow a pair."

The tall boy stares down at her, tears straining to burst from his eyes. But the boy scrunches up his face, and reduces a pitiful cry to a whimper. Then, still sniffling, he shambles off to take a seat against the wall.

"That's kinda harsh, innit?" Jacey asks, snapping her mirror shut and dropping it into a small purse tucked inside her robes.

"So is life," Ranma answers. "If he's gonna cry, it should be about somethin' real, not just a little mud 'n water."

"There was that... _thing_ on the train," Jacey says. Her eyes grow distant and she shudders.

"Yeah, there was that I suppose...," Ranma's voice trails off for a moment. "But that's old news now, if he wanted to cry 'bout that, he should've done it on the train."

The goth pauses, taking a moment to eye the short redhead with something akin to disbelief, then averts her gaze. "What about that evil teacher?" she suggests.

"I don't see anyone else cryin'."

"Well, aren't you little miss sympathy?"

Ranma gives the girl a sidelong glance. "Hey, it worked. He ain't cryin' now. 'Sides, you wanna go over there and comfort him?"

"Hell no. He's a boy. He should tough it out."

"That's exactly what I said. Seeing a boy actin' weak or cryin' really grates on me. It's just so... unmanly."

Further conversation is stifled as a wave of silence sweeps across the room, heralding the opening of the door. Ranma glances up, expecting to see cold eyes, dark robes, and greasy hair, but Professor Snape is not there. She stands on her tiptoes to peek over the shoulders of her peers, following the curious stares of her fellow students to spot a small, balding man with white hair standing at the entrance, dwarfed even by the first-years surrounding him.

"Well, this won't do at all," the tiny man squeaks after surveying the crowd. He rolls up his sleeves and draws a wand from his robes. "Let's see if I can't put some smiles on those faces."

With a quick wave of his wand, the water soaking their clothes and hair splashes to the ground, and with another it vanishes entirely. For the first time since stepping off the Hogwarts Express, Ranma feels entirely dry; even her socks no longer squish between her toes. A weird tickling sensation follows and she startles as great clumps of dirt leap off the children surrounding her then skitter across the floor like a swarm of cockroaches. Lingering chill vanishes as her skin and bones suffuse with warmth, and even Ranma finds herself grinning.

The little man pockets his wand, grins widely, then announces, "I hope to see plenty of Ravenclaws this year."

A shadow darkens the doorway, looming over the dwarf. Every eye turns upward.

"Professor Flitwick," Snape begins. His voice, nary a whisper, reaches even the furthest corners of the room. "I suppose I must offer appreciation for your stewardship during my absence." His eyes rake the students. "Now, form a line and follow me."

Professor Snape sweeps across the flagstone floor, bursts through massive double doors, and vanishes into an enormous hall beyond. Behind him, a ragged line of children scurries to keep up.

Ranma follows at a sedate pace, trailed only by Jacey and Flitwick. She lazily catches a closing door with her foot, thrusts it back open, then steps into the Great Hall.

There are only four long tables for the students, each seating no more than four score - tiny compared to the cafeteria at Headwings. A handful of teachers sit at fifth table on a dais, possessing perfect vantage to observe the entire hall. A legion of candles float overhead, glittering gold and orange off bronze and silver tableware. Above them, the hall opens to sky, and rain pours into the room, vanishing just before it reaches the candles.

Ranma and Jacey join the others below the staff table and watch as Snape sets a frayed and dirt-encrusted hat on a stool.

For a few seconds there is silence as everyone stares at the lumpy piece of leather. Then it twitches, and a great rent opens in the brim. The hat unleashes three rasping coughs, spewing great clouds of dust. Then, it begins to sing.

_From common thread I'm poorly knit _

_From chanted spells I gained my wit _

_Made to discern Where you will learn _

_Your meaning _

_For every house I will select _

_The students that are most correct _

_Have no concern _

_And wait your turn _

_This evening _

_To Gryffindor will go the brave _

_To Slytherin the princely knave _

_A sword of light _

_A hand of night _

_Purported _

_To Hufflepuff the just and fair _

_To Ravenclaw the minds so rare _

_A loyal heart _

_A scholar's art _

_Are sorted _

_So for all this time I've wasted _

_And for patience left astray _

_For all you kids, let's sort without delay!_

The sorting hat bows to all four tables, and the hall bursts into applause.

Snape stands by, idly thrumming a thick roll of parchment with his long, spindly fingers, waiting... _waiting_... Suddenly, he crushes the scroll, his eyes grow hard, and he quells the applauding students with a harsh, menacing glare.

The hall is silent.

Slowly, the professor unrolls the parchment, its every crinkle sounding crisp. He gazes at it for several seconds then focuses on the first-year students. "Brian Abbot."

Nobody moves.

Snape's expression twists with annoyance, and his dark eyes scan the crowd before stopping on a trembling boy with chestnut hair hiding in the back. The child wilts under the professor's gaze.

"Sit!" Snape commands, thrusting a finger at the sorting hat.

"Y-yes, sir!" The boy scrambles forward.

The professor deftly plucks the sorting hat from the stool before the panicking boy sits upon it, then drops it over the boy's head. Crumpled leather falls over Abbot's ears and nose. It isn't there for even a second before the great rent in the hat's brim opens wide and shouts, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Cheers explode from the Hufflepuff table, and Snape immediately turns a glower in their direction. The applause falters, growing far more subdued.

A little prodding sends the boy hurrying to his new house, then the professor reads another name. "Anoka Antonovka."

A tall girl strides forward, clutching her own pointy hat against her stomach, and takes her place on the stool. A shout follows moments later, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Ranma's eyes follow the girl to the Gryffindor table and begin seeking out her sister. She pays the sorting only half a mind, ignoring the calls for Damian Baddock, Blair Blane, and Horace Braeburn. Finally, Ranma sees Hermione waving from among a group of redheads. Ranma waves back unabashedly.

"Jacqueline Estelle."

"I hope that thing doesn't have lice," the young goth mutters.

Ranma watches as Jacey pushes her way through the crowd. The girl looks almost normal with her satin corsette hidden beneath her school robes and her thick mascara cleaned away by Flitwick's magic, but her dyed indigo locks and dark jewelry still exhibit her eccentricity. Snape doesn't even raise an eyebrow, just dropping the hat on her head like any other student. There is a noticeable pause before it announces, "SLYTHERIN!"

After Jacey heads to the Slytherin table, Ranma continues to wait with mild but growing anticipation.

"Kin Fujita." - "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Vivienne Geere." - "HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Ranma Granger."

Ranma is seated before Snape finishes speaking her name. Immediately, her head is swallowed by dark leather and the smell of mildew. Sitting in darkness with a filthy hat upon her head, Ranma finds herself hoping that Jacey is wrong about the lice.

"I do _not_ have lice," an indignant voice whispers into her ear. "Now, let me look inside this head of yours. Interesting, very interesting, I've never had the pleasure of sorting a vampire slayer before."

The hat can read her mind. Ranma stiffens, and her heart beats faster - the nightclub, the train, bloody hands, dark magic, and years spent in an insane asylum. She can't let it know. Oh crap! Is it too late? Will it tell the professors? She might be expelled! No! It can't be too late. Innocent thoughts. That's it - innocent thoughts! Rainbows, butterflies, pink little ponies prancing in a field - images materialize as Ranma recalls the personality-lobotomizing films that Kathryn made her watch.

"Personality-lobotomizing? You have interesting thoughts for a child of eleven years."

Innocent thoughts! Innocent thoughts! She won't lose to a shoddy piece of leather! Ranma concentrates harder: The Little Mermaid, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast - she launches images and choral ensembles like torpedoes at the hat.

The sorting hat chuckles. "It's not working, Miss Granger, though the mere attempt speaks volumes of your character." It then takes a more somber tone. "However, there is no need for your anxiety; I've been placed on the heads of many infamous witches and wizards, and I've yet to share any of their secrets. You are not the first child to have killed, murdered even, before coming here, and I'm certain you won't be the last. Though, I must admit I cannot think of anyone who at age eleven was quite so... accomplished, as you."

_Murder._ Ranma's saccharine defense dissolves as she loses the will to continue dredging up cute memories. _Murder._ The word evokes feelings of shame and guilt. Her mind, for a moment, flashes back surreal to the bloody nightclub, a frozen image of death and destruction, a warm, kind woman dying in her arms... and eyes, accusing eyes. Forcefully, Ranma suppresses the memory. She sits, morose, waiting to be sorted.

"Oh! You _are_ going to be a delightful challenge. Guilt, fear, disgust, satisfaction, acceptance, and determination, such determination... what an incredible mosaic of emotion to find in a child your age! I see you've taken some advanced classes, too. A sophisticated mind like yours would be treasured by Ravenclaw. But it seems your drive to perform comes not from curiosity. Ravenclaw is not for you, I fear, no matter how intelligent you may be."

Good, Ranma thinks viciously. She didn't want to be stuck in the house of swots, anyway. But, despite herself she slumps, her mind drifting back to the happy memories of Headwings and taking classes five years advanced. The faces of older students swim in her mind, their eyes filled with respect, admiration, wonderment, and a touch of envy. Maybe Ravenclaw wouldn't have been so bad...

The hat drones on. "... would be happy in Hufflepuff, but I don't believe Hufflepuff would be happy with you. It seems you don't much concern yourself with fairness. And that leaves me with a very difficult decision. Bold and brave, enterprising and resourceful - which shapes you more, I wonder? You hide from glory, and even you know not your heritage. Perhaps I need to pry a little deeper."

Ranma shifts uncomfortably on the hard, wooden stool. Though she is unable to see much more than a spot of mold on dirty leather, she can feel every eye in the hall staring at her. She can hear them whispering, muttering amongst themselves, impatient. Ranma hopes the hat finishes soon.

"What is this? Why does your every memory lead me here?" the hat asks in irritation after a long silence. "Ash, smoke, fire, a burning forest - I see these before me, yet I cannot approach. Or is it that I dare not?" The hat tenses, then trembles upon Ranma's head. "I quiver. Is this... fear? I am of Gryffindor. Fear shall not stop me. Never before have I failed to sort a student, and I will not fail this night!"

A moment of intense vertigo has Ranma reeling in her seat, then she finds herself under a half-moon, over a dark lake, and diving through smoke and soot towards a brilliant sea of flame. _"If you hate my cooking so much, why eat it!"_ - the scream is loud amongst the echoes and whispers that roar like the cackling fire, and for a second Ranma glimpses the snarling face of a dark-haired, doe-eyed girl. Then the vision of the forest is whirls away. _A bulky, giant of a man with fiery eyes and brilliant red hair kneels before her. "Dhuma Sarhang, what trophies do you bring me?" Swiftly, the man tosses to her feet a chain of heads in varying states of decomposition. In a booming voice, he proclaims, "The heads of the state are now yours, Andhera, and soon all of Seichi will bow only to you."_

_Ranma's eyes gleam and arms of shadow lift before her a blue-skinned head, eyes forever closed in peaceful repose. "So the great warrior Rama, King of Ayodhya, seventh avatar of Vishnu, 'Emperor of the World', dies in his sleep." She unleashes a storm of laughter then reaches out and takes his crown into her hands. "Rest easy, great king. Your people now belong to me, and I take good care of what is mine." Ranma raises the crown above her brow and halts - something invisible, smelling of mildew and ratty leather, rests already upon her head. "What is this? Who dares? You have trespassed beyond your ken, fool! Now DIE!"_

The vision shatters, and Ranma is thrust into a world of yells, screams, and clamoring students. She is seated on the hard, wooden stool, and the sorting hat is slumped upon her head, silent, still, devoid of life. Where once light filtered past her cheeks and nose, now shines only darkness. With one hand, Ranma lifts the brim of the hat, and she stares in amazement at the sight before her: the hall is cast in grays, purples, and blues; students, chairs, and tables stand in sharp relief like silhouettes, their edges clear but details absent; and the candles and braziers float above the Hogwarts great hall, devouring all light with unnatural, black, flickering flames.

"It's Sirius Black! He's going to kill us all!" a voice cries from the fray.

Chairs screech across the ground and further pandemonium erupts within the student population.

"SILENCE!" from the teacher's dais, a deep, mighty bellow fills the hall and brings stillness to the panic. As Ranma turns to face the speaker, brilliant light explodes, washing away the strange negative vision and causing momentary blindness. After Ranma's eyes adjust, she sees an imposing old man with brilliant blue eyes, a crooked nose, graying hair, and flamboyant, violet and aquamarine robes; he stands in a shell of light that presses and struggles against the surrounding darkness.

The man's imposing demeanor transforms into something more amiable. "I can assure you that the Hogwarts staff and myself are more than formidable opponents for anyone or anything that might attack this school. In addition, we are under protection of wards, walls, and, over my protestation, the guards of Azkaban - a matter I intend to cover in greater depth after the sorting. So, for now, I ask that you remain calm while I deal with this fascinating, but inappropriately timed, work of magic."

The old man draws from his robes what appears to be a silver cigarette lighter, and he begins to click it. With each click, tiny balls of black flame hurtle across the hall before being swallowed by the tiny device. Slowly, the shell of light around the old man grows wider, until the last the last adumbral candle is snuffed. Then, with a wave of his wand, the candles and braziers spark anew and shed the light of warm, orange flames.

"Now I believe we have a sorting to finish," the old man says, making a small nod towards the sorting hat before returning to his seat.

"Ahem!" The hat stirs upon Ranma's brow. "Please return me to your head, child."

Ranma releases the hat, and the moldy leather squirms until it settles nicely upon the bridge of her nose.

"I'm impressed," the hat says after a moment. "If I'd half a mind, I'd be dead right now. Fortunately, I am a hat, and my magic is bound to the school itself. However, my sojourn into your soul has left me with only greater confusion: I glimpsed within you a remarkably crass boy, a queen of unsurpassed ruthlessness, and a thousand living memories, whispering in the darkness. Did I see past lives? multiple personalities? another realm entirely?" The hat sighs. "I found no connection, nothing to associate these images with your missing past, with what you know of the events two years ago, with... you. Your mind is a shell, like the cover of a book, but I fear I must judge you by only that - that, and the fact that you're hiding everything else. So, with some uncertainty, I judge you:

"SLYTHERIN!"

As the hat is plucked from her head, Ranma hears a single pair of hands clapping enthusiastically. Her new house joins in a moment later with a subdued, half-hearted applause that dies as quickly as it starts. Ranma hops off the stool, flashes her sister a cheeky grin, then saunters into an open seat across Jacey at the end of the Slytherin table.

"Don't touch me, Granger," a dark-haired ogre of a girl growls from Ranma's right, shifting away just enough that their robes are no longer in contact. Her lips curl in disgust across her large, squarish jaw, and she glowers down at Ranma a moment longer, then adds, "A mudblood like you should sit at the foot of the table, where you belong."

"Shut it, Bulstrode. Just because you're treated like a dog doesn't mean anyone else should be."

The ogre immediately turns her scowl upon the speaker - a much prettier girl with big brown eyes and brown hair styled with cute little curls. Bulstrode emits a threatening growl but is answered with an unwavering gaze and the soft sound of a wand tapping against the edge of the table. With a grunt, the larger girl looks away.

With the ogre banished, the brown-haired girl offers Ranma an unnervingly bright smile. "Hello. I'm Miriam Baddock, second-year, ninety-seven-point-seven percent pure, and pleased to make your acquaintance."

Miriam leans over the table, extending an open hand. Ranma stares at the girl for a few seconds before tentatively clasping it in her own. After a brief but firm shake, Miriam returns to her seat.

"So you're Ranma Granger, right? Are you related to that Gryffindor girl? Not that it matters; with a mudblood name like 'Granger', you'll need to watch yourself." Miriam's friendly smile doesn't falter, and the word 'mudblood' leaves her lips without inflection. She glances at Jacey, adding, "And 'Estelle' isn't much better, even if you're a half-blood. In Slytherin, what matters is power, and the only traits of relevance are blood, money, magic, and friends. I can't help you with the first three, but if you accept my guidance, I can guarantee that you'll be treated with respect."

"You may offer suggestions anytime you like," Ranma answers, slowly. "But I can't promise I'll be listening."

Bulstrode snickers, then, when Miriam's brown eyes narrow upon her, the larger girl makes a show of clapping as a boy named Richard Lyons becomes the newest Slytherin.

Miriam faces the front, puts her hands together a few times for the new boy, then manages a smile and directs her gaze at Jacey.

The indigo-haired girl shields herself with her hands. "Hey, I'm goth. I don't take advice even when it's merited."

Miriam's brown eyes slice from Jacey to Ranma. "I don't believe the two of you quite understand the situation you are in," the second-year girl states with a tone of warning. "Allow me to illustrate. See that fourth-year girl?" She points up the table. "The one trapped between Pucey and Montague? Her name is Nicole Keats, and she is one of two other mudbloods in house Slytherin. Last year, those boys made her carry their stuff, clean pointless messes, and ... other things. She is their slave. And don't think the girls treat her any better. Look at them; they think it's funny." Miriam returns her attention to Ranma. "Without protection, that will be you in three years."

"Why are you here?" Ranma asks suddenly, for the first time showing significant interest. "To offer guidance? protection? No, I'm guessing that you're sitting with Ogre and trolling for friends because you don't have any. Whom is it _you_ seek protection from?"

"Hey, we rejects should stick together," Jacey interjects, glancing in turn at Ranma and Miriam.

Miriam smolders, for a moment tensing, her wand clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Then, with visible effort, she smiles. "Just remember, girls, I'll still be here when you change your mind."

"_Hai, hai_," Ranma vocalizes. She watches a pudgy boy waddle to the Ravenclaw table. Then her eyes snap to the teacher's dais after Professor Snape snarls the next name on his list:

"Camassia Oleander."

From the dwindling crowd of black-robed children steps a stately girl with prim robes and auburn hair. She pauses for a few seconds in front of the stool, staring down at the hat. Her right hand twitches toward a pocket. Then, with a swift and rigid motion, she places the hat upon her head. "SLYTHERIN!"

With a subtle shudder, Oleander carefully returns the hat to the seat. While Snape calls out for a Lois Oliver, Ranma scans her table for the missing Larkspur girl. Instead, Ranma spots the twin pigtails among the Hufflepuffs - the girl is gazing back at Ranma, but her eyes quickly drop to the floor.

"You and I are even now, Granger," a precise, silvery voice whispers suddenly into Ranma's ear. "Let us keep it that way."

Ranma glances up to see Camassia, who slides into a seat that opens up for her among the older girls.

"How do you know Oleander?" Miriam demands. Her gaze alternates between Camassia and Ranma, then the brown-eyed girl frowns and asks, "And why is Malfoy staring at you?"

"Yeah, I've been wondering about that," Jacey chimes in. "For some reason I keep thinking he's gonna walk over here and try to sell you Tower Bridge. Weird, huh?"

Ranma easily spots the grey, calculating eyes that burrow into her from the head of the Slytherin table - they belong to the youngest boy up there, whose familiar, sharp-featured face she remembers from the train. "Ah, so _he's_ Malfoy," Ranma says. She looks back to Miriam and Jacey. "He just hates my sister. That's all."

"How can you say that?" Miriam gasps. "You know he's dangerous, don't you? Look! He's sitting next to Antares Spurge! That means he's a member of the _Synod_!"

"_House rules_, Baddock!" Bulstrode hisses. Then, with an ugly grin, she adds, "unless you _want_ me to get you into trouble."

Miriam flashes a glare at Bulstrode before addressing Ranma. "If Malfoy is after you, you're going to regret not having my help."

Miriam stares for a moment longer, as though trying to drill her words into Ranma's head by force of will alone. Then, suddenly, Miriam's gaze shifts as a new girl - hazel eyes, freckles, and a face still round with baby-fat - takes a seat at Ranma's left. The brown-eyed second-year smiles sweetly, extends a hand, and recites her introduction: "Hello, I'm Miriam Baddock, second-year, ninety-seven-point-seven percent pure, and pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Fiona Ross," the freckled girl half-whispers, nervously accepting Miriam's hand.

Ranma promptly tunes them out, opting instead to stare glazed-eyed as the remaining students are sorted. Finally, Snape rattles off the last names:

"Romilda Vane." - "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Brandy Waters." - "RAVENCLAW!"

Snape banishes hat and stool to the wall with a flick of his wand, vanishes the student list, then takes a seat at the teacher's dais, whereupon he immediately begins to glare daggers at Professor Lupin.

At the center of the teacher's dais, the same ancient professor who earlier stood against the darkness when Ranma was being sorted rises to his feet. "Welcome!" he declares. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!"

Jacey snorts. "_Riighht._ Monsters on the train, trudge through sludge and rain, oh, and the whole spooky darkness thing during sorting was really funny, too. Some welcome we've had."

Ranma grins and leans across the table. "This is nothing," she says. "Last year my sister was petrified by a basilisk."

"Thanks, Ranma. You're _really_ helping me over here."

"Quiet!" Miriam hisses. "Dumbledore is giving his speech."

The ancient professor clears his throat and continues his speech. "As I mentioned during our earlier fright, the Ministry has posted dementors of Azkaban to shield the school from the criminal, Sirius Black. I fear, however, that these creatures may pose a danger in their own right. Dementors are ruthless, malevolent, and know nothing of kindness, concern, or mercy. While I have forbidden them to enter school grounds, there is little I can do to protect you if you antagonize them. Nobody is to leave this school without permission, and I look to the prefects and our new Head Boy and Head Girl to ensure that no student runs afoul of these creatures.

"On a happier note, I am glad to see the largest group of first-years in the last two decades - no doubt the result of the eager celebrations marking Voldemort's fall."

Ranma notices many students, and even several teachers, cringing.

"Additionally," Dumbledore continues, "I have two new teachers to introduce: Professors Remus Lupin, who has kindly offered to replace Lockhart as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and Rubeus Hagrid, who will be replacing Professor Kettleburn as our Care for Magical Creatures teacher. While I know many of you will miss Professor Kettleburn, I'm sure you can understand why he retired with the express desire to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs."

Dumbledore stands silent until the applause for the new professors begins to die. Then he announces, "Well, it's been a long sorting followed by a long speech, and I'm sure you're all ready to dig in. So let the feast begin!"

Ornate platters and pitchers are furnished abruptly with food and drink.

Ranma, voracious after a long day, and appetite no longer suppressed, pushes her own plate to the side and grabs the platter in front of her.

-o2o-

Ranma wears a grin as she waddles across cold, damp stone, following a trail of Slytherins through the labyrinthine passages under the school. The feast was excellent, cooked and melded to a perfection beyond even her own skill, and she had finally satisfied that deep pit of hunger that had been growing in her all day. Then, for good measure, she had guzzled great goblets of pumpkin juice, devoured half a roast beast, and polished it all off with pudding and pumpkin tart.

"Yanno, I was just walking along here and wondering," Jacey muses, "How do you fit it all in there? Seriously? a whole turkey?"

Ranma emits a loud burp, pats her protruding belly, then answers, "Quantum singularity."

The young goth gazes at Ranma's belly for a moment. "Riighht. You keep telling yourself that when you gain twenty pounds... if you haven't already."

The line ahead of the girls slows to a halt as a deep, low, rumbling sound suddenly reverberates through the halls - a continuous, distant groan that's difficult to place. As the echoes die, older students start shoving their way past the girls, doubling back through the dim avenues behind them.

"It's this way now," Meryl Edgecomb - a young woman with wavy-blond hair who had earlier introduced herself as Slytherin prefect and Head Girl - announces as she strides past. "And keep up, because I'm not coming back for any stragglers."

"Okay... was I wasting my time trying to remember the turns we took?" Jacey asks as she hurries to keep up with the older girl, "Because, suddenly, I'm under the distinct impression that this labyrinth changes."

"Of course it changes," a first-year boy scoffs, loudly. "What would be the point of a maze that doesn't change?"

Jacey sniffs. "_Wonderful._"

"Don't worry," the blond woman states, her voice all business. "You'll get a feel for it after a while."

For the next several minutes, they are led through winding corridors and past forking passages. Then, they arrive at a gathering of older students idling in the middle of a long hall. Meryl steps through the crowd without hesitation, allowing them to shift aside and give her a path. She stops, facing the rough, damp stone wall, then utters, "Permanent Prominence."

With a grating sound of stone against stone, a hidden door sinks into the wall and slides open.

The students begin to flood through the door, and Meryl calls out, "First-years, gather at the front!"

Ranma and Jacey follow the flow of students and receive their first view of the Slytherin common room. The chamber is long and low, with massive, square pillars and numerous dark, silent alcoves carved into the walls. Green, glowing lamps hang upon chains from above, casting the room in haunting shadow. At the far end of the hall crackles an enormous fire. The orange glow silhouettes a gathering of six students and shines off a statue of silver snake whose seven heads each entwine a dark-handled broom.

Meryl surveys the gathered first-years, then, with a sharp nod, she retreats to the fire and becomes a seventh silhouette.

"Young Slytherins, approach," a deep, male voice commands from before the fire.

At first in scattered groups, then as one, the first-years move forward. As they proceed, squat, ugly creatures appear, pair by pair ahead of them, each carrying a torch that burns with brilliant, green flame. The group comes to a halt as a handsome young man, standing at the center of the seven students, raises a hand. The features of the seven students are now visible, though awash with the strange, contrasting pallor of green light and orange flame. Ranma's eyes meet briefly with those of Draco Malfoy, who stares at her from the far left.

"Like it or not, you are now part of the Ancient and Noble House Slytherin, and you will be honored and proud to be so for the next seven years," the young man at the center begins. His loud, confident voice breaks the silence and fills the hall. "Here, you will learn how to succeed in the real world. Lessons, in House Slytherin, do not stop at the classroom door, and you will find that this house has policies to ensure that each of you achieve your... _individual_ potential." There is a brief pause as the young man's sharp brown eyes pick various older students from among those gathered against the walls.

"But first, let us discuss the benefits of being in House Slytherin." The young man makes a wide, sweeping gesture that somehow draws attention to both the creatures carrying the torches and the dark alcoves cut into the walls. "As some of you may have noticed, Slytherin hosts a number of private house-elves to cater to your needs. However, the advantages of this house only begin there. Additionally you will find that House Slytherin has a number of special chambers, including: a potions lab, a private library, a dueling chamber, and many others. You will learn more about these rooms and the rules pertaining to their use, later. For now, it is enough to know that they exist.

"If you prove yourself a proper Slytherin, these benefits will extend far beyond the walls of this school. Slytherins take care of Slytherins. When seeking invitations, job interviews, or even when merely desiring a degree of discretion, you will find yourself at an advantage. Of course, the converse is also true." The man's eyes darken, and his voice deepens ominously. "If you shame this house with your behavior, you'll find yourself with very few prospects."

For a moment, the young man's unwavering gaze holds their own. Then, with precise words, he resumes his speech.

"Now, pay attention, for I'm about to tell you of our most important and ancient of traditions, and I don't care to repeat myself.

"There is a group in this house, created by Salazar himself, called the Synod. The Synod is a circle of seven Slytherins that decide house policy independently of the house head. This esteemed circle has a great deal of freedom in deciding punishments and rewards amongst members of the house, but make no mistake: the Synod is not your friend; it exists solely to ensure the success of House Slytherin. You _will_ abide by its policies.

"Among these policies is a very basic rule: House business stays within the house. You are not to discuss the Synod or internal politics with others. Similarly, any disputes you have with other Slytherins stop at the door. It does not matter if you hate each other's guts... or blood. Outside these halls, Slytherins present a united front.

"Next, the success of a Slytherin is the success of the house. Equally, the failure of a Slytherin is the failure of the house. We will not tolerate the undermining of another Slytherin's efforts, nor will we tolerate your own inadequacies. You will rise above them, or you will learn to circumvent them.

"As a Slytherin, you will be required to behave like a proper wizard. If necessary, you will receive lessons in proper etiquette, mannerisms, and dress. In that way, no matter your background, you will not shame the Slytherin house in front of the school. Speaking of which, Liam Douglas, Brandon Hays, Ranma Granger, and Vincent Crabbe will be meeting my sister promptly at seven-fifteen tomorrow morning.

"Before any of you foolishly challenge the Synod, know that it is supported by both ancient tradition and our house head, and, while not officially recognized by the current headmaster, Albus Dumbledore has never countermanded its authority. Further, attempting to bypass the Synod carries dire consequences. If there are in-house issues that need intervention, bring them to us, and _we_ will decide if they are worthy of Professor Snape's attention or that of the headmaster himself. However, part of being a Slytherin is learning to take care of your own disputes. We have neither the time nor inclination to deal with petty problems, and we shall not take kindly to being interrupted for useless drivel.

"The Synod members still with us include Meryl Edgecomb, Derrik Fulke, Clayton Warrington, Evelyn Glass, and myself, Antares Spurge. I'd also like to introduce our two newest inductees: my dear sister, Shaula Spurge, and our very own Slytherin seeker, Draco Malfoy. As is tradition, they were selected by our graduating members. Should you wish to eventually join us, you'd do well to start currying favor immediately.

"And on that note, I take my leave. The rest of your tour will be handled by Draco Malfoy."

Antares and the others quickly depart, and the cadre of house-elves vanishes.

Draco Malfoy stares at Ranma a moment longer. Then he steps forward, his eyes sweeping across the first-years, a gleeful expression growing on his face. "Dorms are the alcoves nearest the fire - boys on the right, girls on the left. First years are all the way in the back. Each dorm has a private lavatory. If any of you need to go before we continue the tour, do so now."

Ranma watches as Jacey and several other first-years scatter. Staying behind are a couple boys, Camassia Oleander, and a furious girl with black hair and jade-green eyes. Ranma answers the girl's venomous glare with a smirk, mentally assigning her the name: Jonquil Rosier.

"While we're waiting, why don't I show you some of the donations given to Slytherin House by some of our more prestigious alumni," Draco says, gathering the small group's attention. He lays a hand upon the silver statute of the seven-headed snake, and its coils shift and slide as though alive at his touch. "This is where the quidditch brooms are kept. The statue is silver, plated in platinum, and depicts the legendary and extinct hydra. My father says they'll still be using this a hundred years from now. Statue, and brooms, is one of many historic donations by the Malfoy family. You, of course, are not allowed to touch the brooms - they're for quidditch members only. But I invite you to admire the statue any time you wish."

Draco fingers a black-handled broom for a few seconds before approaching the massive fireplace. "This exquisitely carved gold mantle is one of the oldest and most famous of additions to House Slytherin. It has been here more than three hundred years and houses a fire that shall never die. The images engraven tell the story of Salazar Slytherin, from his apprenticeship to the founding of Hogwarts and the Synod, and his eventual betrayal orchestrated by Godric Gryffindor. This mantle was donated by Procyon Black, and is said to have cost a million galleons. ... and I see that everyone is here, now."

"For those of you who were gone, we were just talking about Slytherin's betrayal by Gryffindor. I'll make it simple for you: Gryffindors are your enemies, and anyone befriending the enemy will be in trouble with _me_," Draco says, denoting himself with a thumb. "Now, follow me. Let's get this tour finished."

Draco leads the group to a nearby alcove and into a dimly lit room filled with shelves, books, and a few tables. "_Illumine!_" he calls, and instantly the room is suffused with a warm glow, bright enough to read by. "This is our private library. It doesn't compare to the depth or breadth of the Hogwarts library, but you'll find a few unique books here and many that you can only find in the _restricted_ section." The blond, third-year boy gives them all a massive smirk. "This is one of my favorite rooms, and I'll tell you why. See that chest, there in the back? It holds thousands of homework assignments from generations of high-scoring Slytherins. Some of you might even become contributors. Remember - it's 'reference material only'."

At Draco's signal, the group exists the library. The boy dismisses the next alcove with a gesture and an utterance, "That's some sort of music room." They stop at a room of bare stone, with one long, raised platform in the center. "This is the dueling chamber. It once was used to settle disputes. See that red stain there?" the boy points at a faded discoloration on the wall, "I'm told it's one of the original Synod members. Apparently, he didn't vote with the rest of them. But today, this chamber is mostly used for sport. Not that you could have a real duel anyway. Thanks to laws written by soft-hearted blood-traitors, winning or losing could land you in Azkaban." Draco begins to exit, then stops to say over his shoulder, "Oh, and you can't use this chamber without supervision, and that means a prefect or a Synod member."

"I'll get you in here and there'll be another bloodstain on the wall, _mudblood_," Jonquil hisses at Ranma.

Ranma merely raises a brow, then she follows Draco to the next alcove.

"This is the Potions room. I can't actually take you in there; Snape has forbidden entry to all students short of NEWT-level. And we won't enter the next alcove, either... or, at least, _you_ won't. It's the Synod wing, and, unless called, you have no business there. So, next is the atrarium."

They walk across the hall, past the Synod's alcove, and into the 'atrarium'. Soft earth and grass compact underfoot, a small waterfall trickles into a fine stream, and a light breeze brushes against Ranma's cheeks, carrying the fresh scent of nature. Unlike the previous rooms, Draco does nothing to illuminate this one, but dozens of plants glowing a weak, greenish-blue, show them the path.

"The atrarium was built over seven-hundred years ago as a Synod project, and took twelve years to complete," Draco says, after bringing the group to a stop. "The room is one-hundred feet in diameter, and the ceiling is twenty-five feet high at the center. You can't see it now, but in daylight you can look through the ceiling and into the lake above us. It is maintained by sophisticated enchantments and continuous efforts by our house elves. Other than that, this room speaks for itself. In late winter, you'll be grateful it exists."

"I gotta say," Jacey says, nodding appreciatively, gazing at an ornamental tree that stretches toward the ceiling. "Slytherin sure is posh."

"Yeah," Ranma agrees. "I'm pretty sure my sister didn't mention anything like this in Gryffindor."

"That's because Slytherin is _better_ than the other houses," Draco snaps. "And don't forget, Granger, that you're a Slytherin now. Your house loyalties lie with us."

They trek back to the common hall and into the final alcove. Therein are several tables surrounded by shelves full of chess sets, dozens of decks of cards, a pair of crystal balls, something that appears to be an old-fashioned gramophone with a large horn, and many various gizmos for which Ranma has no name.

"_This_ is the game room," Draco says with a note of finality. "We prefer to keep the common room somber, so if you'd like to play exploding snap, do it here." He pauses briefly then waves them towards the door. "And that's the end of your tour. Go to your rooms. Except Granger - we have something to discuss."

Jonquil snickers as she takes her leave.

Draco waits impatiently until all the other first-years are gone, then takes off, calling back the command, "With me, Granger."

Ranma shrugs, then lazily follows an agitated Draco out of the game room and back to the Synod wing - an extended hallway with several doors. Draco continues to the very last door, then opens it. "Inside, Granger."

Ranma gazes at him for a moment, then walks in. The chamber is the size of a master suite, with a king-sized bed on one side and a large, oaken desk on the other. An archway leads to a private lavatory with a tub large enough to swim in. As she watches, a squat, ugly little house-elf toddles out of the lavatory and into the main room.

The creature's enormous eyes widen, and it freezes upon seeing her. Then it looks past her to Draco. "Sorry, sorry," it squeaks. "Master has guests!" With a quick bow, it vanishes.

Draco closes the door behind her, and then there is a soft click. He turns to her and hisses, "Give it to me!"

Ranma stares at him for a while, glances back at the bed, then raises a brow. "Sorry, Draco, but I won't put out on a first date."

Malfoy's pale face turns beet red. He growls, "Don't play games with me, Granger. Give me the dagger."

Ranma grins. "If you wanted 'the dagger', shouldn't you have grabbed a boy?"

"You think that's funny, Granger? Do you think your sister can protect you here? One word from me and you'll be spending the next two months scrubbing toilets... and that's supposing I don't decide to inform Professor Snape that you are using dark artifacts. That's an expulsion for sure, if not a sentence to Azkaban. Being on probation won't help your case at all."

Ranma's smile vanishes, and her eyes darken. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you do," Draco snaps. "I saw you on the train. I saw what happened to the dementor. And I _know_ you saw me. Don't even try to deny it. You're up to your neck in dark magic, and a first-year like you is doomed to drown. So give me the dagger, and we can decide how to work together from there."

"You can't prove anything," Ranma retorts. "And even if there _was_ something to prove, I'd have to be stupid to hand you the evidence."

Draco tears his wand from his robes and grates, "I'm not asking."

Ranma snorts. "I don't care."

"_Imperi_-uff!" Draco's shout ends in an undignified wheeze as he slammed violently into the nearest wall.

Ranma holds the boy's wand-wrist in one hand and a fistful of robes in the other, and the boy's toes dangle a foot above the ground.

"It seems to me, Draco, that you didn't think very hard before you dragged me in here. Imagine, for a moment, that you did see me on the train." Ranma's left hand pulses with strange sensation. "Suppose you did watch as I tore the dementor apart. Picture yourself, cowering in the the corner while I reach out, with the hand presses now against your chest, and consume that parasite's soul." Ranma can taste the boy under her hand - the sweet flavor of uncorrupted human magic - and she offers the boy a wide, predatory smile. "We both know I'm the most dangerous person in this room. But, little boy, let me tell you a secret: I'm the most dangerous being in this castle."

_... tremble. tremble before our queen ..._

Ranma's breath catches with a start. She gazes at the boy in her hands for a moment longer, then throws him across the room where he crashes upon the bed. With a final glance at Draco Malfoy, Ranma shoves open the door to the Synod hall - heedless of the loud cracking of splintering wood - and leaves.

Draco coughs and wheezes on his bed and waits until the ceiling ceases to spin. Eventually, he stands up and straightens his robes. "Kridder!" he calls.

With a pop, the large-eyed house-elf appears before him. "What wills you, master?"

"Fix that door," Draco demands. He pauses. "Then, I have another task for you. The girl here earlier is named Ranma Granger. I want you to watch her and tell me everything she does... and don't be seen."

-o3o-

Ranma gazes at the narrow scar sliced recently through her hand, arm stretched towards the distant lights of Hogwarts. An icy mist escapes her lips, and fat raindrops trickle through the branches and needles above her, dribble upon her pointy hat, roll onto her shoulders, and sink into her robes. The magicked material from Madam Malkin's works full time, barely managing to keep her clean, dry, and warm.

After a minute, her arm flops into her lap where are cradled the shattered remnants of her cold-iron amulet.

What is happening to her? Twice today, first on the train and then in the room with Draco Malfoy, she'd...- She'd behaved strangely. The emotions, the arrogance, the certainty were her own, and her actions had felt natural, even reasonable. But that's impossible. It is not _natural_ to 'taste' the souls of nosy little boys. She had no _reason_ to crush the amulet that had protected her for as long as she can remember. But her deeds do have one, simple explanation: she's going insane. Again.

The thought of her madness sends sick tendrils creeping into her gut. Will she be sent back to that room of white nothingness? Will she be cast from friends and family, and locked up until her memories rot away? Ranma shudders and she clutches at the broken pieces of wrought metal but receives none of the comfort the talisman once offered. Instead, the iron twists and crumbles in her grip.

There is also a tiny, lurking fear that everything she knows is but a dream, that she never left the white room, that she will awaken one day to find her sister, her friends, and all her memories are delusion, a phantasm, an imagined reality induced by her desperate need for companionship.

Worse is the lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, she's not insane; maybe she's just _waking up_. Her memories extend only two years, and the majority of her past and experience is locked away... blocked away. While once upon a time she looked forward to recovering her memories, that desire has slowly changed to apathy, then, all at once, ash. She dreads that one day her true self will awaken and shed friends, family, and 'Ranma Granger' like an old skin. The hat had called her a 'shell', the cover of a book... and, now, she had a name for the story within: Andhera.

Andhera - ancient queen? dark goddess? 'Holy Mother'? The memories that assaulted her under the ministrations of the hat are fuzzy, fading like the nightmare upon the rooftop and washed away in the confusing aftermath of her sorting. Still, she recalls the dead face of the great, blue-skinned king called 'Rama', if only for such silly a reason as the name 'Rama' rhymes with the one she has claimed for two years as her own. She'll need to look it up later; a 'great king' ought to show up in at least a few history texts.

Suddenly, she seizes upon another possibility: Not madness. Possession! As an explanation, it is as simple as insanity. But with possession, there is hope. Possession can be fought, fixed, controlled, exorcised... Ranma stares down at her destroyed amulet, her eyes glowing with maniacal intensity. That must be it! Possession explains _everything_. Ollivander had said her magic is inhuman... but _she_ isn't the monster. The monster is _inside_ her. And, perhaps, if she can get a clear account of who 'Rama' is and how he died, she'll learn the nature of this 'Andhera' and how to be rid of her.

Ranma sighs and relaxes against the tree, tension melting from her body. Her gaze turns for a moment to the shattered amulet, then she tosses it to the muddy ground below. The twisted and torn pieces plop lightly against the surface of a dark pool of water then sink to its depths - a hole she dug earlier, in which already float blood-encrusted sheets and bandages, pinned in the mud by a single, sharpened table-leg - the one she hadn't managed to stick into Alucard.

But Ranma's eyes are focused again upon the distant Hogwarts. The warm lights beckon in the cold night, and dredge up memories of Kathryn's delighted babbling and the mesmerized eyes of a silent Audrey as Ranma relayed the stories of this magical place under Hermione's disapproving glare. Hermione... her older sister had offered that very same glare over breakfast this morning, mixed with more than a little concern, and Ranma can't help but think of the careless words spoken in a moment of weakness on the bathroom floor: _Is it wrong to murder vampires?_

Guilt washes over Ranma. Murder - that is something _she_ did: not some memory of a past self, or a possessing spirit named Andhera, but the actions of Ranma Granger. She remembers, with crystal clarity, the weight in her heart and in her hand as she chose the fate of the burly boy, and the utter simplicity of that act that stole his life. It was an execution - and when she murdered the boy, she felt nothing; she still feels nothing, at least not about the boy's death. The intense pain in her heart... Ranma doesn't know which is worse: the haunting eyes of those who died due to her carelessness, the gentle smile of the sandy-haired woman who took a bullet while trying to help her, or the absolute knowledge that at any moment she could _choose_ to end another life in revenge, hate, anger, mere irritation - for any reason... or even for no reason at all.

Because doesn't that make _her_ a monster, too?

A fierce wind howls through the forest, her robes flutter wildly, and the tree in which she sits sags deeply to the left. Water showers from the undulating branches, viciously penetrating her neckline and overwhelming the magic of Madam Malkin. As the icy flood soaks through cloth and skin, Ranma shivers, but she is unsure that cold is the cause.

Her brooding defeated by the nasty weather, Ranma reaches into her robes and pulls out the dagger. The weapon is silent, lifeless - patterns of red do not flow across its sable surface, and the golden hilt does not quiver at her touch. Beyond its black iron blade and ceremonial design, it appears exactly as it had for two years: a normal, unremarkable cutting tool with an unfortunately dull edge.

Ranma gazes down at the muddy hole beneath her.

The dagger, like the bloody bandages from last night's raid and the wooden stakes sharpened in fearful preparation, is damning evidence against her. She has no doubt that it is magical, and dark. That arrogant brat of a Synod member, Malfoy, had succinctly summarized the legalities of merely possessing such an artifact, and Ranma finds herself doubting she'll ever see the 'mercy' of a wizarding court.

Yet, Ranma cannot bring herself to drop the dagger in the pool below. The weapon, for all its creepiness, carries with it distant memories: the ghost-like man who stepped from the shadows, and nostalgic fancies of her deceased father. There are the near forgotten words spoken to her as she gripped the golden pommel for the first time: _Not all things can be hurt by fists or guns_. And she feels that the dagger is somehow relevant to the whole mess with Andhera. No, the dagger is too important, too valuable to be buried as garbage.

Ranma rests arm and dagger in her lap, and turns her head towards the sky. Heavy drops fall upon her face, splashing cool against the skin and chasing away her weariness. She breaths deep the fresh and freezing air, drinking the scent of rain and pine. Rare lightning darts across the skies above, with nary a rumble audible over the creaking trees and rushing wind. And for a moment the sky glows with a bluish tinge, revealing heavy textured clouds that stretch across the horizon in a crumpled sheet, wrinkles lit and rumples darker than night.

In the fading light she can make out movement beneath the clouds.

The night's icy chill seems to penetrate ever deeper. Ranma trembles and her left hand clenches the golden pommel of the dagger. Without thinking, she rises, leans against the frigid gale and sways with the flailing branch; her eyes strain to pierce the darkness. Something faint - dark, yet visible - circles above.

Another flash, and she catches sight of wispy cloaks, inky pitch, and long putrid hands. Aware, she now distinguishes the unearthly chill permeating the forest, and her stomach turns at the pungent stench of spiritual sewage, faint and fleeting with the wind. 'Dementor', guard of Azkaban - so was named the creature she saw upon the train. Now dozens of them glide through the air, searching ceaselessly for the man called Sirius Black.

But those dementors, flying far above the treetops, are much too distant - they cannot affect her with their presence.

"Squeak!"

Ranma's eyes dart toward the source of the high-pitched cry just in time to hear a sharp 'pop!' from across the tiny glade. She scrutinizes the caliginous cavities among the sea of needles and traces the ebon silhouettes of giant trunks and thick roots. And, as she searches, the air grows colder... the smell of rot, stronger.

One, two..., four hooded figures flow from the darkness, their massive forms floating gracefully between trees and beneath the branches as they enter the glade. Behind, they leave tracks - not of footprints and mud, but a path of frost and necrosis. Their collective gaze rises to meet Ranma's, exposing rotting visages, vaguely human, eyeless, and covered with puss and boils. A mouth gapes wide, a chasm of darkness lined with mold instead of teeth.

Then it inhales.

The frigid wind turns glacial and an overwhelming stench roils in Ranma's gut. A force pulls at her - not physical, but undeniable. For a second, freshly buried emotions swell within her - lies, fear, murder, guilt, guilt, guilt, Kathryn's broken body lying among shards of glass.

Then Ranma's left hand lashes out, a flash of gold streaks, and the dagger smashes through the dementor's heart then embeds deeply among the roots of the evergreen behind it. An atramentous line stretches from where the dementor still stands to the point of impact. The creature stares down at the slowly widening pit in its chest - it's cloak and body unraveling into aphotic threads that spiral into the dagger's blade. The creature doesn't scream even as its head is the last part to go.

Ba-bump! A rippling pulse beats across the glade and surges through the proud evergreen which wilts and wastes; needles fall like rain. It's branches twist, shrink, and writhe, then finally still. Against its surface, water begins to freeze, stretching into long, thin icicles. And a fine, white mist emanates from the tree, spreading across the glade, causing nearby sprigs and ivy to blacken and die.

Ranma glares down at the three remaining dementors, two of whom gaze at the tree, floating about it in silence. The third stares back, unaffected by her gaze, gliding closer until Ranma can see in detail the gangrenous pustules hanging from its bloated lips. Ranma wrinkles her nose, but she resists the urge to recoil from its fetid fragrance or flinch when she sees something pale and flexible crawl from its nose and burrow into its cheek.

Then she feels a weight, a pommel, again in her hand.

The creature's gaze drops to the dagger. For a moment, it is still, then it slides to the side and drifts past her. At some silent signal, the others follow, passing beneath her tree and over her muddy hole before vanishing into the forest.

Ranma stands in the tree for a minute longer, waiting until the air is fresh. Then she glances once more at Hogwarts, thinking of a warm bed and steaming shower. Taking not a moment longer, she drops to the forest floor and grabs the great spade that leans against a stacked pair of boulders.

-o4o-

"Right now that disgusting mudblood is probably being _crucio'_d by the whole Synod." Jonquil declares gleefully. "Nothing less than what she deserves. How _dare_ she be in house Slytherin? It's bad enough her kind are even allowed in Hogwarts."

Across the room, Jacey snickers in answer, then flips to the next page of _Dark Buster Winston: Choose Your Own Magical Adventure_. The goth girl's back rests against a mahogany head board, and her legs are stretched out over smooth, green sheets. Hogwarts robes lie crumbled on the floor, and her knee high platform boots are paired off against the stone wall. But, despite the late hour, she still wears her velvet skirt and satin corset.

"You think that's funny do you!" Jonquil snaps, bouncing to her feet. From halfway across the room the girl thrusts her wand in Jacey's direction. "They'll be after you too, mudblood."

"Halfblood, apparently," Jacey replies. She takes a moment to watch with bemusement at a depiction of a distraught 'dark' wizard being turned inside out, internal organs falling upon the floor. Then, upon seeing the aurors arrive, she directs Winston to flee. "According to Miriam anyway," she adds.

Jonquil scowls, her green eyes narrowing, then she drops into her bed. "Nobody cares what little Miss 'two-point-three' thinks. Right, Camassia?"

Behind Jonquil, the auburn haired girl's arms reach out from beneath her covers and pull her pillow more tightly about her ears. Jonquil favors her friend with a long, dark, and completely unnoticed glare. Then, when it becomes obvious that Camassia has no intention of replying, she turns her eyes upon the only other person in her audience.

Fiona Ross, stuck in the bed dividing Camassia and Jonquil from Jacey and the empty bed reserved for Ranma, murmurs something indecipherable then shrinks under her blankets until her head disappears entirely.

"Hmph!" Jonquil snoots. For a few minutes there is silence, while Jonquil sits, legs folded upon her bed, her nose raised disdainfully in the air. Then she bounces out of her bed and starts pacing.

"You know what? I bet that filthy girl is already dead. Tomorrow we'll find her head on a pike, mounted on the Hogwarts walls."

"Good," Jacey states, reading as Winston jumps into a river and transfigures himself into a fish in a desperate attempt to escape the Aurors. "Then you can shut up and we can all go to sleep."

"That's it!" Jonquil screeches. "I'll tolerate your insolence no longer, you mudblood... halfblood, whatever you are!" The green-eyed girl stamps angrily and levels her wand. When the indigo-haired girl flips to the next page, Jonquil growls in frustration and stomps forward until her wand is blocking Jacey's view.

"Now, you're going to get what's coming to you." Jonquil snaps. "I'll... ... ... I'll turn you into a newt!"

Jacey merely reaches up and plucks the wand from Jonquil's hand, then promptly drops it between the pages of _Dark Buster Winston_ and closes the book. She raises a brow. "Oh, really? Turn me into a newt, you say? Well... go ahead."

"Y-you-you... You can't do that! Give that back! Right now!" Jonquil lurches forward, grabbing for the book.

Jacey simply rolls off the other side of her bed. When she rises, she's grasping the wand as if to break it. "Hey, hey. Careful there - you wouldn't want something awful happening to Mr. Pointy. Hostages situations require careful negotiations."

Jonquil's jaw tightens, and her face shifts toward an ugly shade of purple. Then the girl whirls. "Camassia! Camassia!" she shrieks, rushing to her friend's bed and tearing the pillow off her head. "That girl took my wand! Turn her into a newt!"

"Jonquil Laurestine Rosier," Camassia pronounces the name with care. "Be silent. You've been acting the fool. You are fortunate that your parents will not hear of this."

Camassia sits up in her bed, fallen blankets displaying her long nightgown of translucent silvery-white. "Miss Estelle, is it? I must inform you that taking another wizard's wand is considered a serious offense. I suggest you return it at once, and none shall hear of it." Her grey eyes flash sharply to her friend. "Now, if that is all, I demand the return of my pillow and that there be no further disruptions or I will take measures to ensure no more occur."

At that moment the door swings open and a wet, muddy redhead steps inside. Her gaze sweeps the room, stopping upon Jonquil, Camassia, and Jacey. "Please tell me there's a shower and a lavatory in here," she solicits.

"Right that way," Jacey replies, thumbing a door. "Next to your bed."

Ranma nods and begins trudging towards the door.

"Wait!" Jonquil demands. "Aren't you going to tell us what the Synod did to you? Oh, and look! They took away your luggage. I wonder how a destitute mudblood like yourself is going to make it through Hogwarts without anything but her _one_ robe."

Ranma pauses, but doesn't look back. Then, with a grunt, she reaches deep into her pocket, wrenches out a massive trunk, and sets it firmly at the foot of her bed. And with two, final strides she is in the bathroom, the door slams shut behind her, and the bolt slides into place with a resolute click.

"Well, now that this debacle is done and over with, I say we get some sleep!" Jacey declares. Then she glances at the wand in her book. "Oh, and I guess I'll let you have it back this time," she adds before lazily tossing the wand onto Jonquil's bed, whereupon it bounces, clatters across the ground, and slides deep under Camassia's.


End file.
